


In Vogue

by neymovirne



Series: Harry Potter, PI [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Background Relationships, Case Fic, EWE, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Gen, Humor, Investigations, M/M, Mystery, Owls and seagulls and cats, Post-Hogwarts, Private Investigator Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-07-11 14:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 58,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19929604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neymovirne/pseuds/neymovirne
Summary: Harry Potter is back in the game! Follow him as he investigates the death of an heiress to one of the richest wizarding families, all while navigating his relationship with Severus outside of Hogwarts walls.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to False Pretences. I've been itching to write Harry solving more cases for a while, so here it is. 
> 
> Thousand thanks to Sadsnail for being an amazing beta and wonderful person.

A wizard in voluminous robes walked down to the speaker’s stand. In the dim light of the flickering sconces, his beak-nosed Venetian mask and a Mephistophelian goatee looked particularly menacing. Facing the audience of three dozens of similarly masked people, their plush chairs arranged in a semicircle, he made a complicated gesture with his wand, puffed up his chest and started speaking.

“As the Sun follows the Moon, and the Moon follows the Sun in their eternal dance, Light Magic cannot exist without the Dark. Ancient Mages knew it well, but modern witches and wizards forgot all about the Old Ways in pursuit of instant gratification and alien muggle inventions.” The last words were spat with derision. “While our ancestors embarked on occult journeys of self-enrichment, pushing the boundaries of magic in spite of perils lurking in wait on their paths, modern generations are content to spend their lives only on the most mundane tasks, forgetting the once treasured rituals, decrying them as black, heinous magic.” His voice rose in righteous indignation, and the audience hummed approvingly.

Stifling a frustrated sigh, Harry cast a non-verbal _Tempus_ , hiding the wand between his itchy robes and the seat in front of him. What kind of Lodge of Darkness convened its meetings on Saturday mornings? Probably the one consisting of bored housewives, Ministry clerks, and shopkeepers who were playing dress-up after a long and uneventful week and had to be in bed by ten. What a waste of his time.

The man droned on and on, complaining about younger generations and the sorry state of magic nowadays, peppering his speech with a healthy dose of bigotry and prejudice. His audience were nodding along gravely and clapping at appropriate moments. 

Harry was pretty sure by now that the masked wizard in the seat next to him, rapturously listening to every word, was a senior Auror from the DMLE. The one who used to deny any suggestion that wasn’t covered by the Auror Rulebook when Harry was a trainee. The Rulebook that hadn’t been updated in at least sixty years. Pushing the boundaries of magic, indeed. There was always hope that he was here as a part of an investigation, but somehow, Harry doubted it.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the speaker finished. A corpulent woman stood up from the throne-like chair in the front row. She made her way to the stand in a flurry of gauze and brocade, her face hidden by the black veil flowing down her hair. She repeated the same symbol with her wand and raised her bejewelled hand in a regal gesture.

“Greetings, Adepts of Darkness! First, let me thank you, Brother Asphodel, for your astute and heartfelt speech, which, I’m sure, everybody here agrees with wholeheartedly,” she said in a voice that inexplicably reminded Harry of Umbridge, even though it was much deeper and throatier. “I’m delighted to announce that in a fortnight, on the Saturday night when July turns to August, we will celebrate the full moon with an ancient Druidic ritual. For a few hours, it will allow us to become one with the Wild Magic of the Earth.”

There were grumblings from the audience. Many of the members were not at all happy about having to gather at night.

“Come now, my children.” The woman put her hand over her plunging cleavage. “There will be a buffet.”

This time, the audience’s response was much more favourable.

The next was the Secretary, a thin and tall woman in plain brown robes. After thanking the Grand Mistress for her gracious rule of the Lodge, she produced a scroll and put a monocle over her mask. In a dry, monotone voice, she read out the aliases of recent patrons—Asphodel was one of the more restrained ones—and reminded everybody about membership contributions.

After that, to Harry’s unending relief, the gathering drew to a close. He probably should have tried to mingle with the dispersing crowd, but he had another appointment in half an hour. He still wasn’t sure what would be appropriate clothes for a luncheon in a posh muggle restaurant, but it sure wasn’t a floor-length embroidered robe. Still, he approached the wizard in a drama mask, who had introduced him—under the guise of a rich foreign benefactor—to the Lodge, and was greeted with a warm handshake.

“Told you it’d be worth your while,” the man said in a low voice, crowding into Harry’s space.

Harry took a step back from a wave of bad breath and replied with a nod and a grunt. Hopefully, it was enough to convey his sincere appreciation.

“See you on Saturday the 31st, then. Our rituals will blow your mind! Shame you weren’t here for the Solstice. That was something else.”

“I can’t wait.”

The man disappeared in the green flames inside the large ornate fireplace, and Harry followed suit, making sure to cast non-verbal _Muffliato_ around himself.

On the other side, his office stood empty, but the door leading to _Weasley’s Cursebreaking_ was slightly ajar. Harry could hear familiar voices coming through.

“On the count of three.”

Bill and Severus were bent over a china figurine of a cat, intense concentration on their faces. Severus held a dropper in his hand, and Bill had his wand on the ready.

“One… Two… Three!” Severus let three drops of viscous potion fall.

As soon as they hit the figurine, Bill cast a containment field, keeping the thick gaseous cloud and inhuman shrieks it emitted in a semi-transparent bubble. After the air inside cleared, there was a real tabby darting around the table instead of the figurine.

“Don’t—” Severus started, but Bill had already cancelled the field. Ears turned back, the cat jumped to the floor and darted under the couch with an angry hiss. “—let the cat out.”

“Too late,” Bill swore under his breath and dove after the spitting animal.

“Having fun?” Harry smiled, disengaging himself from the doorframe he had been leaning on. Shaking off his layered robe, he banished it, together with the jester mask, into the wardrobe with a flick of his wand. “Why didn’t I become a cursebreaker? There’s always something exciting going on in here while I’m off on some ridiculous meeting, wearing ridiculous clothes.” He might have liked the griffins along the hem, but if he ever wore brocade again it would be too soon.

“Grand Lodge of Darkness didn’t meet your expectations?” Severus’s face was neutral, but something in his tone tipped Harry off.

“You! You knew this... this... organisation is nothing but a joke!”

“It is? How unexpected.” His lips twitched.

“You were watching me run around Britain, doing quests, and learning secret passwords and handshakes to get inside for a whole month, and didn’t breathe a word!” Harry fumed. “Is it payback for the Divination thing?”

“You were so excited to discover this great conspiracy of dark wizards. I didn’t have the heart to tell you about their rather... amateurish nature.” Severus smirked, unrepentant.

“You mean you had a good laugh at my expense.”

“Well, I had to suffer through years and years in that illustrious company. Arsenius Jigger ranting about young people today and Griselda Marchbanks describing rituals she did naked on a new moon in her garden. I don’t see why you should be spared from the experience.”

“Marchbanks? The old bat who’d been running examinations in Hogwarts by the time Dumbledore went there as a student? Naked?” Bill emerged from under the couch victorious, but not unscathed. There were fresh scratches on his face and hands. The cat, however, was calm and smug in his arms.

“The one and only. No words can express that horrifying experience.” Severus let out an exaggerated shudder.

“For years and years?” Harry asked.

“Albus wanted me to keep an eye on potential Dark Lord sympathisers.”

“You could still have dropped a hint. Nott isn’t going to pay us much—if at all—for this case, let alone repay all the galleons I had to spend to infiltrate this group of wannabe ‘Adepts of Darkness’.” Harry’s voice rose, mimicking the Grand Mistress. The ‘admission fee’ had been more than generous, and Theodore Nott was unlikely to have that money with his Ministry clerk salary. His father, safely incarcerated in Azkaban for life, had left him with numerous debts, a dilapidated tower in the middle of unplottable moors of South West England, and a dubious collection of Dark Arts books. Thankfully, Harry’s old classmate seemed to have no interest in the latter. But one of the more—if not the most—dangerous books of the lot had gone missing, and now Harry had to find it before somebody decided to put it to some nefarious use.

“Don’t underestimate what disgruntled mediocrity is capable of,” Severus said, serious this time. “This could still be useful, and not only for this case of yours.” 

Harry’s wand buzzed the alarm.

“Damn! I have to go. If Pansy returns early, don’t tell her where I am!” He hurried to discard his dragonhide shoes in favour of muggle loafers, tripping twice in the process. Then he turned to Severus, planting a quick kiss on the thin lips. “You are going to pay for your deception,” Harry muttered in his ear.

“I’ll be looking forward to that.” Severus’s low voice was full of promise. Regretfully, Harry let him go and apparated away.

* * *

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Potter.” 

Wearing an elegant knee-length black dress and a string of pearls around her neck, Astoria Greengrass looked much more at home in the posh muggle restaurant than Harry himself. With her updo and oversized sunglasses, which she had discarded after sitting down gracefully at the white-clothed table, she looked like one of those stars of old Hollywood whom Aunt Petunia had always tried and failed to emulate.

“Harry, please.”

“You should call me Astoria, then. I feel like we know each other well enough by now to dispense with formalities.” A wry smile ghosted her lips.

Remembering the circumstances of most of their previous meetings, Harry his stomach drop. “Did Pansy—?”

“No, no, it’s not about her. Although I appreciate your discretion in meeting me here. I was concerned she would attempt to… intervene otherwise.” Astoria wrinkled her nose slightly.

“Pansy is very professional when it comes to our job,” Harry said with more confidence than he felt. In the light of the recent events in Astoria’s family, even Pansy wouldn’t go out of her way to antagonise her ex’s fiancé as usual, but Harry wouldn’t count on her restraint if she saw Astoria in their office. “I take it this isn’t a social call?”

‘Unfortunately, it’s not.” Astoria paused, taking a deep breath. “As you might know, my sister passed away a month ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Astoria.”

Daphne Greengrass was found dead in her London flat a month ago, allegedly due to a severe allergic reaction to a newly-prescribed sleeping potion. Her face had only recently left the pages of the Prophet, although most of the articles had been surprisingly tasteful, without airing any dirty laundry. The family must have paid a lot of galleons to keep them that way. But no amount of money could stop the speculations completely. Some reporters and ‘anonymous members of the concerned public’ whose comments found their way to the newspaper doubted the official reason for Daphne’s death. There were numerous theories, each one more lurid than the other.

“Thank you.” A strange mirthless smile flitted across her mouth before she continued. “I know that despite all the efforts of our family, the Prophet likes to paint Daphne as some potion addict who overdosed on party drugs.” That was Pansy’s go-to theory as well. “It’s not entirely untrue, but—” Astoria paused, hesitating.

“Everything you tell me is completely confidential,” Harry assured. He discreetly erected privacy spells around them, keeping the wand under the table.

“She died because of a combination of alcohol, a double dose of Pepper-Up-Plus and a potion called Remembrine in her blood,” she admitted in a rush, clearly uncomfortable at sharing her family secrets.

Unlike ordinary Pepper-Up Potion, Pepper-Up-Plus, also known as Party-Up, did not cure a common cold but gave you a jolt of energy and wakefulness that lasted for hours. It was extremely popular among the wizarding club scene and overworked Ministry employees. Remembrine was a very dangerous potion of dubious legality, used to recover forgotten and Obliviated memories. Harry had tried it once and hoped he would never have to do it again.

“You suspect someone Obliviated your sister of incriminating information,” Harry guessed.

“I didn’t think it was anything other than a tragic accident at first.” She seemed to choose her next words carefully. “It wasn’t out of character for my sister to indulge in stimulant potions, given her lifestyle and circle of friends, and there could be any number of reasons she would use a memory potion. However—” Astoria fell silent as a waiter brought their food.

Harry eyed the small piece of duck breast surrounded by artfully arranged tiny vegetables, some green leaves, and splashes of sauce dubiously. At least he could see what the ingredients of his dish were. Mostly. Glancing over at the piece of expressionist art on Astoria’s plate, even tinier than his own, Harry felt at a complete loss.

Astoria herself seemed to be pleased, breathing in the aroma with a delighted expression on her face. “I’d never thought muggles knew anything about fine dining until recently, but you won’t find anything even close to what they have here in the wizarding establishments this side of the Channel,” she said conversationally.

Poking the duck with his fork, Harry let out a vaguely affirmative sound. He seemed to be doing this a lot today.

“As I said, I didn’t think there was anything more to my sister’s death than her simply being careless.” She returned to business abruptly. “But a week ago, something odd happened to me.”

“Odd?”

“As far as I can recall, I spent last Saturday at home alone, catching up with my reading and school plans. However, Draco—he usually has lunch with his parents on Saturdays—returned home for some papers he’d forgotten, and apparently, I wasn’t at home. When he came back a second time, I was there, without any memories of having left at all.”

“Are you sure you weren’t simply in another room when Mal—Draco came?” Harry had to ask.

“I wasn’t. For one, the details of the time escape me if I try to think about them too hard.” A sure sign of sloppy Obliviation. “And I found this in my robe pocket, even though I have no idea how it had got there.” She took a photo out of her purse and handed it to Harry.

It was a picture of two women smiling at the camera. Harry recognised one of them—a blonde in a striped sundress—from the shared Gryffindor-Slytherin potions lessons of his student days. He had rather hazy memories of Daphne Greengrass, except for that one memorable time somebody—he was sure it was Seamus at the time but learned much later that it was Pansy’s doing—transfigured her dried newt eyes into much bigger and lifelike human ones, dangling nerves and all. 

Severus had to cast _Silencio_ to stop Daphne from screaming like a banshee, but not before she made Goyle’s cauldron explode by shoving the eyes away from her every which way frantically. Harry fondly remembered that lesson as one of the few where Severus was mad at his snakes and not him for a change.

The other woman in the photo was wearing a rather extravagant outfit of golden robes, turban, and big blue sunglasses, her arm draped around Daphne’s shoulders. Turning the photo around, Harry read the inscription, _‘Hope you change your mind about that collection, it’s so worth it! See you in Milan, girl! xoxo, Eleni.’_

“Who’s that?”

“No idea.” A hint of irritation crept into Astoria’s voice. “One of my sister’s many fairweather friends, most likely. Haven’t seen that one at the funeral. The point is that I remember seeing that photo on Daphne’s coffee table after... When we came to her flat afterwards. But I’m sure I didn’t take it then.”

“Did you go to your sister’s flat after this incident?” Harry asked.

“Yes, Draco and I went there. Parts of it were in a bit of disarray, but no more than the first time we came. And Daphne was never a very tidy person.”

“Do you suppose anything was taken?”

“Her wand, jewellery, and money were there. But then again, maybe things _were_ taken. I haven’t been to Daphne’s flat often. We aren’t—weren’t close. She stopped sharing much of her life with me since she’d left for her first year at Hogwarts.” For the first time during the lunch, Astoria sounded pained. “If something specific was stolen, I cannot even begin to imagine what it could be.”

“Did you go to the Aurors with your suspicions?” Harry had to ask, even though he was certain what answer he was going to get.

“Neither Mother nor Father would hear of it. As you surely know, going to the Aurors would result in all the sordid details splashed across the Prophet, and they want to keep pretending Daphne had been a perfect daughter. They certainly aren’t ready to give up all the sympathy they are getting.” Astoria’s voice was bitter, and more cutting than Harry had ever heard. Even after the worst run-ins with Pansy, she always seemed vaguely rueful and disapproving, in her dignified way. Malfoy’s shrill hysterics usually more than made up for it, though. “Not that I have much faith in what the Aurors could do in this case.”

“So you want me to look into the circumstances of your sister’s death and find out who Obliviated you both and why,” Harry summed up.

“Basically, yes. I’ll be honest, Draco tried to dissuade me from coming to you, but I believe you are the only one who can help us learn the truth. Discreetly.” She put special emphasis on the last word.

“I’ll take your case.” Harry felt he owed that to her anyway, if only because of the cow incident where he all but sided with Pansy. “If you are free tomorrow, I’d like you to take me to Daphne’s flat and tell me more about her daily routine and circumstances of her death.” His voice was gentle.

“I don’t know much about her routine. And I wasn’t the one who… found her that night.” She shuddered and looked away, focusing on the bustle of the street outside the window. “But I’ll show you the flat. Mother wanted to start bringing Daphne’s things over, but I didn’t let her.”

“This was the right decision. Please leave everything as it is for now.”

Astoria nodded.

“We also need to make sure there are no further Obliviation attempts. Would you consider some sort of surveillance?” Harry asked carefully.

“Draco’s put a tracker spell on me and rarely leaves me out of his sight these days. Dodging him to meet with you today was difficult enough. Still, I thought it would be better if we first met without him knowing, or he’d insist on—” she trailed off, shaking her head. “Anyway, I think the spell would be sufficient for the time being.”

“If something happens, contact me as soon as possible. Even if you think it’s small and insignificant.”

“I will. Thank you, Harry.” Astoria gave him her usual polite if a bit distant smile.

“I’ll send you our standard contract so you can read it carefully before tomorrow.”

“Money is not an issue.” She waved her hand dismissively. The Greengrass family was one of the wealthiest in the British Isles, especially with so many old names frayed by the war. They, however, had stayed well out of it, so they didn’t have to spend a crippling fortune on bribes in the aftermath, such as the Malfoys did. Even though she herself had a full-time job at Ceridwen Academy, the first and only wizarding primary school that opened after the war, she didn’t have to work a day in her life if she chose not to.

Well, Harry was glad that at least some of his clients thought so, especially after the snooty waiter brought the bill.


	2. Chapter 2

To Harry’s disappointment, when he returned to his office, Severus had already left. Instead, he found Pansy deep in conversation with Parvati Patil, glasses of red in their hands. Photos of jewellery were fanned across the desk between them. In his absence, Pansy had made some changes to the office: the simple leather chairs were transfigured into velvet wingback ones, and the only free wall was adorned with an Indian-style tapestry. Within the circles and bigger elements creating the round floral pattern, every little detail was moving in synch, the circles slowly spinning in the opposite direction. Harry’s head spun with them.

“—And then I snuck into the secret room behind the mirror in her boudoir while she was lying there all passed out—a terrifying experience, I tell you—and there they were! And not only your sets; entire cases of them!” Pansy was clearly on the roll, waving her free hand in agitation.

Parvati listened avidly to every word. “I wonder how many of those are stolen as well.”

“The bitch has a thing for rubies, even though they look terrible on her with her complexion. Oh, hi, Potter.”

“Harry!” Parvati turned to face him with a smile. “Pansy found those missing ruby earrings! I thought it was surely a lost cause after a year, but she found them in less than a month!”

After the war, the Patil twins had opened their own business, a jewellery store in the affluent part of London. A very popular store. Even the most complicated anti-theft charms didn’t stop people from trying—and sometimes even succeeding—to steal from it regularly.

Pansy preened under the praise.

“Jewellery is Pansy’s speciality,” Harry said. He dragged a chair from his desk closer to Pansy’s and straddled it, arms crossed on its back. “Has she told you about the diamond set she found in that creepy lip sofa from the Spanish museum?”

“I still say we should’ve kept it,” said Pansy. “Being a teacher was a fun experiment, but it’s so good to be back in the chase.”

“I remember how good you were at Transfiguration back in school! I still cannot imagine you as a Hogwarts Professor, though.” Parvati giggled, clearly tipsy already.

“Little blighters adored me. Even McGonagall recognised my teaching genius.” Pansy raised her glass, toasting herself. Harry covered his snort with a cough. “What? Do you want to argue? Tread lightly here, Potter.”

“Oh no, you were great.”

“Damn right I was.”

“I don’t think they’ll forget that experience any time soon, especially your—how did you put it?—carrot and stick approach.” With some things, like the choice between grading younger years’ homework for Pansy and listening to her life advice after classes for an hour, Harry wasn’t exactly sure which was which.

“I put the fear of Merlin into them, didn’t I?”

Parvati snickered, leaning back in her chair. “It’s so strange how it all turned out,” she said. “My fifteen-year-old self would never believe it if she saw us now.”

“Oh?” Pansy asked, more on guard now.

“Yes! You partnering up with Harry, helping people. While some of our yearmates that I used to think highly of proved themselves to be not at all what they seemed.”

“Who do you mean?” Pansy bounced in her chair, expecting some juicy gossip.

“Well, it’s poor taste to speak ill of dead people.” Parvati pursed her lips primly, even though she was clearly eager to share her story.

Pansy had no such qualms. “Is it about Daphne? She was always the bitch supreme behind that angelic exterior.”

“Weren’t you the... Anyway, yes, I mean Daphne Greengrass. I’d never had any close interactions with her, but she always seemed perfectly nice, if a bit arrogant. We have... had a lot of common friends in the industry, and they all thought her rather open-minded. And I’ve never missed an episode of _The_ _Witching Hour_ once in my life.” Parvati paused and threw a careful look in Harry’s direction as if expecting him to comment, but Harry had no idea what the Witching Hour even was.

With Pansy looking like she was stifling a laugh at his expense, Harry was torn between resolving to ask her what it was about later or cowardly let the sleeping hippogriffs lie. Some things, you were simply better off not knowing, and Harry had an inkling this was one of them.

“Anyway, she came to my store and spent half an hour ordering me about like I was a simple salesgirl on a summer job away from Hogwarts. Extremely rude. And just as she was leaving, Lavender came by and gave her a flyer for her charity. They are raising money for providing kids with lycanthropy with free Wolfsbane from reliable sources, you know. Ministry’s brewers aren’t the best, or maybe just don’t want to make an effort, all while charging an arm and a leg for the subpar stuff.” Parvati gave Harry a loaded look but didn’t say anything further. “Greengrass said, and I quote, that ‘half-breeds and mindless beasts didn’t deserve a knut of her money’ and all but threw the flyer in Lavender’s face with a laugh, can you believe that?”

“She didn’t!” said Pansy, suitably outraged. “I hope Brown taught her a lesson about werewolves and manners.” At the beginning of their work together, she held a lot of those prejudices herself. These days, however, even if she voiced her old opinions occasionally, it was mostly for show and shock value. In reality, she doted on Teddy whenever Harry brought him to the work, and even participated in one of Lavender’s rallies. Though the latter, as Harry suspected, was more so that she could shout insults and throw rotten eggs at the Ministry officials.

“It was a close call. You know Lav’s temper nowadays, not that I blame her. But no, Greengrass left right after.”

“Did she buy anything?” Harry asked. Pansy, who knew him much too well, threw him a curious look.

“Oh, an onyx necklace. A surprising choice, I’d think it would be way too massive for her taste.”

“Do you by any chance have a photo of the necklace? From a catalogue, or something? It might be important for one of our current cases.”

“Sure, Harry,” Parvati said, intrigued. “I’ll send it to you later today.”

As soon as Parvati left, Pansy was all over him.

“Spit it out, Potter. What was that about Daphne?”

“Turn the chairs back first,” Harry said, standing up. This was his one chance to get this over with quickly, while Pansy was curious and eager to hear the news, and he wasn’t going to miss it. “And take down the tapestry too. I think it’s trying to use Legilimency on me. Or at least make me sick.”

“I shouldn’t put up with your tyranny, Potter.”

Harry, who had recently agreed on those ghastly green curtains she wanted instead of the blinds they used to have, just looked at her pointedly.

“Fine, fine.” Pansy pouted but transfigured the chairs back.

Content, Harry flopped down on the chair Parvati had vacated, a sensible leather one. “The tapestry? At least stop it from moving.”

“I put it up for Patil’s sake. One of my six-year students gave it to me. She charmed it for her NEWT project,” Pansy said, waving her wand at the tapestry. It slid from the wall and rolled up into a neat bundle. “One would think you of all people should know about the sentimental value of things.”

“For Parvati, huh?” Harry looked at her questioningly. While Pansy kept on trying to make their office ‘more dignified,’ especially when some rich old pureblood client was coming, she had never added any personal details before.

“Don’t try to change the subject,” Pansy said as if she wasn’t the one doing that. “Daphne. I bet this has something to do with your mysterious lunch appointment both Bill and your boyfriend refused to tell me about, am I right?” She’d kept referring to Severus as ‘Potter’s boyfriend’ until he threatened to poison her booze. After that, she was careful not to call him that when he was in the earshot.

Since Pansy was going to suss everything out, sooner rather than later anyway, Harry helped himself to a glass of wine and brought her up to speed.

“I’ve had a meeting with Astoria Greengrass today.”

“Oh, really?” Pansy drawled. She despised Astoria with her whole being, for no other reason than being Draco Malfoy’s fiancé. Seven years after their break-up, the ferret was still a touchy subject. Even after many years of their partnership and friendship, Harry still couldn’t decide if the complicated feelings Pansy had for Malfoy were still a kind of love, or if she simply clung to her hurt and resentment towards him as safe and familiar. Probably a bit of both.

“She thinks there’s something fishy about Daphne’s death,” he quickly continued before Pansy could deliver a tirade about all of Astoria’s many and varied faults.

“That Euphoria Elixir or whatever she’d OD’ed on must have surely gone bad.” Pansy rolled her eyes.

“It wasn’t the Euphoria Elixir. It was the Party-Up—”

“Ha!”

“—and Remembrine. Remember that one from the Hutchinson case?”

“The potion to recover Obliviated memories?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“It’s not worth it, whatever the memory,” Pansy said sharply. She was with Harry when he took it. He had only a hazy recollection of that night, but he’d never seen her that scared, before or after.

“And now Astoria thinks someone has been Obliviating her as well.”

“Oh, that’s precious. She decided to learn what made her sister desperate enough to try something like that damn potion only after she herself had been affected.”

“I don’t think they had the warmest of relationships,” Harry agreed.

“You bet they didn’t! I remember when Astoria came to Hogwarts in our third year. Following her sister like a calf. Daphne was embarrassed and soon put a stop to that. I don’t think their sisterly bond ever recovered.”

“That’s harsh. Siblings act stupid all the time when they are thirteen,” Harry said. Ron avoided being seen with Ginny like a plague throughout their Hogwarts years, and the twins thought the same about Ron. Now, Ron and George worked together, and their Quidditch get-togethers with Ginny, when she was away from the Harpies training camp, were legendary. On the other hand, Harry’s own precarious relationship with Dudley only recently progressed to exchanging Christmas cards, and he still couldn’t believe they made it that far.

“Daphne had always been a two-faced little bitch, just like her precious sister. But where Daphne fancied herself to be some sort of femme fatale, Astoria, the frigid cow, likes to put up a holier-than-thou facade of a wilting flower. That clash of personalities was just too strong,” Pansy said. Suddenly, her face turned contemplative, and she absentmindedly took a sip from her glass.

“Don’t even think about it,” Harry said in warning.

“Think about what?” Pansy asked, much too innocently. She put her glass on the desk and reached to fiddle with a shark figurine.

“Don’t approach Astoria under any circumstance. Or Malfoy, for that matter. I’m taking this case myself.”

“Suit yourself, although it’s much more up my alley. Just to think, you’ll probably get to go to the Wizarding Fashion Week in Milan,” Pansy’s clasped her hands over her chest and let out a sigh of exaggerated envy. “And I know you just cannot wait to pour over the catalogue of her articles about make-up, hair care and robes. Maybe you’ll even find and apply some long-overdue advice!” She burst into laughter. “Just look at your face! Yes, I can see how excited you are.”

“Maybe I should’ve stayed a Hogwarts Professor,” Harry grumbled, only half-joking. As much as he enjoyed being a private investigator, seeing students get the ropes of Defence under his tutelage was extremely satisfying.

“I’ll have to take over Theo’s case, then,” Pansy said with a more serious tone. She must have sensed Harry’s hesitation because her face grew stormy. “You know I’m perfectly capable to handle it, Potter.”

“Of course you are.” He raised placating hands. “It’s just... It’s a vile book, and I doubt that whoever took it has anything but trouble in mind. Dangerous trouble.”

The book in question was Magick Moste Evile, and not just the heavily abridged version residing on the shelves of the Restriction Section in Hogwarts. No, it was a complete, uncensored edition with detailed practical instructions and Voldemort’s annotations on the margins. Harry shuddered to think of who exactly could find the use for it and what that use might be.

“Whatever you think, you don’t have the monopoly on dangerous trouble, you know. And just who saved you the last time you found yourself in it, eh?”

“You did, oh fearsome warrior goddess, the bane of all the thieves, cheating spouses, and Hogwarts students’ existence.”

“And don’t you ever forget it. Although warriors are for Gryffindors. I always exercise utmost caution and avoid fights if I can help it, unlike some.” Belying her words, Pansy looked very pleased. “Now tell me more about that Lodge of Darkness you’ve attended today. Finally! That must have been quite an experience. I’ve heard most scandalous rumours about it.”

Harry sighed and poured himself some more of Pansy’s wine.

* * *

The fire was crackling merrily in the fireplace as Harry curled up against Severus on the sofa. By the last month in Hogwarts, Harry had all but moved in with him in the dungeons. For the summer, however, Severus insisted on keeping things at Spinner’s End, even though he spent most of his time between Grimmauld Place and the lab at _P &P Investigative Services _ that they occasionally shared with _Weasley’s Cursebreaking._

In fairness, calling it a lab was a major overstatement. Before Severus forcibly evicted Harry on his very first visit and rearranged everything to his liking, it was more of a cramped storeroom with a couple of cauldrons in the middle. Here, Harry brewed not-quite-legal Polyjuice and a couple of other eyebrow-raising potions, those that weren’t too difficult to make, anyway. He had a trusty and discreet supplier, but dealing with her was often more trouble than it’s worth. That meant Harry had to apply the limited skills he had gotten from the Half-Blood Prince’s textbook. Merlin knew Pansy was even more hopeless at Potions than he was, having dropped them after her OWLs. Over the years, Harry got the hang of brewing, if he said so himself, and expanded his repertoire of potions considerably, but it was never something he particularly enjoyed.

And according to Severus, he was doing everything wrong.

Severus threw out all the robes, old magazines, a broken coffee machine, and other junk that accumulated in the lab over time. He tweaked the lighting and ventilation spells, catalogued all the ingredients, finding most of them subpar, replaced half of the cauldrons and glassware and brought three times more. On top of all of this, he made a harassed Dennis Creevey scrub everything that was left without magic. 

Dennis was actually Bill and Fleur’s apprentice and employee, even if he himself often forgot about it with the way Pansy shamelessly ordered him around, so Harry bravely volunteered to do the cleaning himself. Severus, however, in no uncertain terms kicked him out of the lab and forbade him entry completely. Apparently, Dennis had a knack for potions and got an O for his NEWTs, so he proceeded to assist Severus with some complicated potions Bill and Fleur commissioned—and with replenishing Harry’s stock. Not for the first time, Harry wondered guiltily if he should pay Dennis as well.

“What’s on your mind?” Severus carded his fingers through Harry’s hair. “You’re unusually pensive today, and that is never a good sign.”

“That was a cool potion you made for Bill, the one that turned the figurine into a cat.”

“People should take better care of their pets, especially if their house is full of cursed artefacts on display.”

“It’s good to have a challenge, isn’t it? I’m sure you can brew all the potions you make at Hogwarts with your eyes closed. Brewing Pepper-Up for the Hospital Wing year after year must be daunting for a Potions Master of your calibre.”

Severus’s hand stilled. “I know what you’re doing, Harry.”

Oh well, subtlety was never his strong suit. “Don’t think I’m pressuring you into any decisions, because I’m not, I’m really not.” Harry twisted his head to look at him. “But wouldn’t you be much happier without all the students you despise? Brewing the potions you want, with much more free time for research?”

“I don’t despise all of my students,” Severus said tetchily. “It’s just the absolute majority of them are—”

“Dunderheads?”

“Precisely.” Severus paused for a moment, sighing. “Even if I entertained the idea of leaving Hogwarts once or twice, you know very well that there’s a quarter of the student body that depend on me.”

“I’m not saying you need to hand in a notice this year,” Harry said carefully. “But things are getting better, aren’t they? The new Transfiguration Professor is a former Slytherin, and McGonagall told me that she’s considering Roger Davies for Defence. He’s a Ravenclaw and a fair-minded guy. There won’t be a repeat of the last years.”

“Roger Davies.” Severus scoffed. “Whatever brains he might’ve had that prompted the Sorting Hat to put him with the eagles, Quidditch made them turn to mush long ago. Didn’t he do that asinine teeth potion commercial for the Prophet? One Lockhart was enough for my lifetime.”

“Roger’s nothing like that fraud. I brushed up against him a couple of time when he still worked with Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. He’s pretty good, if a bit vain.”

“Brushed up against him, did you? Am I going to work with the staff half-comprised of your previous conquests?”

“Hey! I’m not like that, and you know it.” Harry shoved at Severus’s shoulder playfully. “For the record, Roger is completely straight, and he’s not my type anyway. So you don’t have to terrorise him like poor Neville. And while we’re at it, you don’t have to terrorise Neville either. I should’ve never told you about him.”

“Terrorising Longbottom is what I do.” Severus harrumphed. “It’s the order of things.”

“I happen to know from Aurora that you were civil to him before.”

“As the new Head of House, he needs to grow a thicker skin, as soon as possible.”

“Oh, so it’s for his own good?” Harry smiled and raised his hand, drawing his fingers along Severus’s cheekbone lightly. “That page of my life is closed for good. You have no reasons for jealousy, not for Neville, and certainly not for Roger Davies.”

“Hopefully Minerva only mentioned him in an attempt to make you stay for one more year.” Severus intercepted his hand and traced the lifeline along his palm, sending a jolt of pleasure that took Harry’s breath away, but not enough that he didn’t notice the veiled question there. They talked about it before, and Harry knew Severus wanted him to take the post permanently, even if he didn’t say anything out loud. Severus even grudgingly admitted that Harry was ‘an acceptable teacher, for a novice at least’, which was high praise coming from him.

“I’ve enjoyed teaching, even though the students could be more terrifying than killer fish at times. Especially those sixth years leaving underwear in my office on a dare.” Harry shuddered.

“Believe me and my experience with the hormonal beasts. It wasn’t a dare.”

“Have they ever—?”

“Do not. Finish. That question.”

“Anyway.” Harry snickered. “When McGonagall contacted me about Roger Davies, she offered me to take the NEWT classes. This way, I could have the best of both worlds.” Harry smiled a bit nervously, waiting for Severus’s reaction.

“The students in the Defence NEWT classes are a danger to themselves and others,” Severus said finally. He aimed for his casual scorn, but couldn’t quite hide a pleased note from his voice. “They are mostly dolts who picked up a few hexes and now fancy themselves experts on the Dark Arts—never mind they still can’t tell a ghost from inferius most of the time.” He smirked.

“Oi!” Harry protested, sensing a dig in his direction. “Everybody knows that ghosts are transparent!”

“So if the only choice for teaching is you and Davies—well, at least you can throw a serviceable shield. What’s that peacock going to teach? How to reflect curses with the shine of his pearly-white teeth?”

“Maybe I’ll return to Hogwarts full-time some years down the line,” Harry said thoughtfully. “But I love doing detective work as well. Much of it is spying for cheaters and searching for lost heirlooms, but we get to help people too, often when the Aurors would do nothing.”

“Still feel the need to play the hero?” Severus’s voice was cutting.

Frustration welling up, Harry attempted to move aside, but Severus didn’t let him, drawing him closer instead. Harry knew it was Severus’s way of appeasing for hurtful remarks that seemed to find their way into conversation whenever he felt nervous, vulnerable or defensive.

“My work isn’t all daring rescues and people trying to kill me, despite what you’ve seen so far. Those are pretty rare. The life of a Hogwarts teacher is much more dangerous in comparison, you know.”

“All those deadly moving staircases.”

“So that’s why you live underground.” Harry grinned, but then grew serious. “Pansy called me an adrenaline junkie once, and I guess I am a bit of a one sometimes. But not nearly to the extent you seem to think I am.”

“Well, this remains to be seen.”

“I’m a junkie for something else, though.” Harry leered, straddling Severus lap.

“That was a truly horrible one, Potter.” Severus huffed out a laugh, putting his arms around him.

Capturing Severus’s lips in a heated kiss, Harry was well aware that the conversation wasn’t over. It wasn’t a problem for him to apparate to Scotland instead of Grimmauld Place after work, even though he suspected that most of Severus’s objections to his job and wanting him to take the permanent post at Hogwarts stemmed from the concern that it would be. But Severus truly seemed so much more content away from the children that constantly frayed on his nerves and half of the staff who just barely tolerated him. Still, Harry knew that Severus would never abandon his snakes. Hopefully, Gemma Farley, the new Transfiguration Professor, would prove herself competent despite McGonagall’s outcries of nepotism so that Severus would feel safe leaving them in her hands one day. And if he was completely honest with himself, he did wish for that day to be sooner rather than later.

But all of it could wait for now. They’ve still got half of the summer left, and Harry intended to show Severus just how well they could work outside of the Hogwarts walls. Right now, Severus’s tongue curling against his own and Severus’s hands sliding under his shirt were chasing any concerns together with all the coherent thoughts away.


	3. Chapter 3

Three figures appeared out of thin air in front of a red brick Victorian building in South Kensington with a loud pop, startling a couple of pigeons. Even the birds strolling along the pavement had a stately air about them, befitting the general atmosphere of the neighbourhood.

“Won’t Muggles notice us apparating in full view?” Harry asked, looking around.

“Pfft,” Draco Malfoy scoffed. “As if Muggles ever noticed anything.”

“There are mild Muggle-Repelling Charms over the area,” said Astoria. “The couple living on the ground floor are squibs, and the neighbours on the left are some Middle Eastern magnates; they are never there.”

Together, they went up to the stylish penthouse. The hall was spacious and bare. The living room looked like it belonged on the cover of some interior design magazine. The walls and furniture came in shades of white, contrasting with the dark wood of the parquet floors and decorative panels. A dark red cloak laid spread across an ivory-coloured velvet chaise longue like a stain of blood. Something about the decor reminded Harry of Grimmauld Place as it used to be: snake wallpapers and the troll leg umbrella stand. Despite looking nothing alike, the place felt just as welcoming.

“Astoria, darling, back so soon with young Draco? And who else have you got there?”

Startled, Harry reached for his wand, but the voice wasn’t coming from a person. Or, at least, not from a person in the flesh. On the mantelpiece, there was a portrait of a handsome young wizard in a large powdered wig, his lips so red it had to be lipstick. He was lounging at a desk with a stack of parchments and an inkwell on it.

“Good afternoon, Benedict, meet Harry Potter. Harry, let me introduce you to Benedict Greengrass, editor of the society pages of the Daily Prophet throughout the 18th century.”

“Only since 1754, my dear, I’m not _that_ old,” said Benedict. He turned his head to Harry and gave him an assessing look. “Harry Potter. I knew one Henry Potter in my days. Looked very much like you, except for the eyes. Jolly good chap, even though he did steal my fiancé from me. I hope you didn’t set your sights on our beautiful Astoria here, did you?” He wagged his finger at Harry in warning.

“You’d better not, Potter,” Malfoy warned, putting a proprietary arm around Astoria’s shoulders.

“I’m gay, remember? And happily in a relationship. Sorry, Astoria.”

“And how did that fucking happen, I’ll never understand,” Malfoy grumbled under his breath, earning himself a reproachful look from Astoria.

“You are here all the time, right?” Harry asked Benedict. A magical portrait was an unexpected boon since those could be fonts of information. “Can you tell me about the night of Daphne’s death?”

“Horrible, horrible tragedy! Such a bright candle cruelly snuffed, a beautiful rose cut before she had a chance to bloom!” Benedict cried. “I’ve always viewed Daphne as my student and spiritual successor. So talented, ever since she was but a girl. We would chat for hours, and I was her trusted confidant.” He dabbed at his eyes with a lace handkerchief. “But yes, that fateful night. I’ll tell you if it’s all right with the family.” He glanced at Astoria inquiringly.

“Please tell Harry everything you can about Daphne,” said Astoria. “We hired him to investigate whatever was happening in her life to lead her to drink an illegal and dangerous anti-Obliviation potion.”

“I understand. Daphne mentioned you, dear Mr. Potter, or may I call you Harry? You’re a gentleman detective now, aren’t you?”

Malfoy snickered.

“Something like that,” Harry said. He’d been called many things, and this was far from the most ridiculous one. “Now, can you—”

“Yes, of course. The tragedy.” Benedict drew himself together, interlacing his fingers over the parchment. “Daphne came home just before midnight, very distraught. She had that damned vial in her hand, and I got a feeling of deep foreboding in my bones, even though as a portrait I don’t exactly have those anymore.”

Harry hummed. The portrait loved the sound of his voice, playing it up for the audience.

“I asked her what that was, but she ignored me and retired to her bedroom. There were sounds of her pacing, then of glass shattering, and then a scream and that horrible choking sound, the sound I can still hear in my mind!”

Astoria flinched, and Malfoy hugged her again.

“You don’t have to be here if it’s hard for you, Torie,” he said with gentleness Harry had never heard from him before. “I can keep Potter in check myself.”

“No, no. I’m fine, darling.”

“I didn’t want to trouble your parents unduly, Astoria, my poor girl, but I was worried beyond reason.” Benedict continued. “So I popped to the Greengrass Manor—I have another portrait there, you see, of me as a little boy. Cordelia and Mortimer had already retired for the night, but I made quite a racquet. Alas, when Cordelia finally came through, it was too late.” He shook his head despondently.

“Tell me what was happening in Daphne’s life before the accident,” asked Harry. “Did she mention anything that troubled her? Was there anything unusual in her behaviour?”

“She was rarely home lately, and always looked tired when she did. I thought that she was busy with preparations for the impending Fashion Week. She was preparing a special project for that, you see. But now that I think of it, it couldn’t be the only reason. She was unusually irritable and short with me over the last week, but I attributed that to that Goldstein boy breaking off their engagement.” Benedict pronounced the name as if it was a curse word.

“She and Anthony broke up?” Astoria asked in surprise. “She didn’t say anything, neither to me nor to Mother and Father. Anthony himself certainly never mentioned that little fact at the funeral.”

“Oh, they did. Quite a scene it was; feeble excuses and curses flying, not that I blame the poor girl. That good-for-nothing halfwit turned up here, some days before Daphne’s untimely death, to say that he found himself some wench and return the ring. Why would you look elsewhere if you had a woman like Daphne on your arm?” He raised his eyes heavenwards and paused as if expecting an answer from there. “Incomprehensible.”

“Did they ever have big arguments?”

While relationship drama was Pansy’s speciality, Harry had his share of cases where people smoothed conflicts with the liberal use of memory charms. Cheaters, gamblers, addicts who got caught red-handed and preferred to make their spouses or parents forget about the situation rather than deal with the consequences.

“Oh no, they never quarrelled at all, from what I’ve seen. Although he barely showed his face here this last year. I guess I see why Daphne would think he’s good husband material, but the man is such a bore with no imagination.”

Harry wracked his brain to remember anything concrete about Goldstein. He used to be a member of the D.A., a shy and nerdy boy who couldn’t produce a corporeal Patronus when Harry taught it in their fifth year. Nothing else came to mind. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should have socialised more during his Hogwarts years.

“Goldstein works for Goldstein, Goldstein & Young. Audits, taxes and financial advice,” Malfoy supplied. “Pompous twat.” As if he of all people had the right to call others that.

“Anthony is all right, if a bit dull.” Astoria was much more diplomatic. “He has been working between London and their New York headquarters, though. The distance might have put a strain on the relationship.”

“I’d never have thought he had it in him to leave Daphne. Such a golden boy who could do no wrong in the eyes of the future in-laws.” From the poison in Malfoy’s voice, Harry could guess that it was not the case for Draco himself. “And to think, he had no scruples whatsoever about Cordelia fussing over him at the wake.”

“The wiles of whatever Mudblood that had led him astray must have waned over the week.”

“We don’t use that word anymore, Benedict.” Astoria chided.

“What, ‘wiles’? It means—”

“Benedict.”

“Twenty-first century,” the portrait huffed.

“Who else visited Daphne lately?” asked Harry. It was high time to return the conversation back on track. Casual blood purism was still very much a thing among pureblood families; more so when they thought they were in the circle of like-minded individuals. He was more surprised that Malfoy restrained himself to one quiet, almost guilty snort instead of full-blown laughter.

“Not many. She didn’t have a party here in ages. That Irish chap from the wireless—Lee, I think is the name—flooed once or twice about her programme,” said Benedict. “She also had her childhood friend of hers over, but it was around three months ago. Then the girl left for the Americas again.”

“It must be Davis; she lives in Canada now. Left Britain after our sixth year,” Malfoy explained.

“Thank you, Benedict. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll probably have some follow-up questions later, but now I’d like to search the flat,” said Harry. He looked at Astoria questioningly. He’d prefer to do that alone, without the Ferret looming over his shoulder, but needs must.

“Go ahead.”

The living room held nothing of interest, looking more like designer showpiece than a space that had ever been in use. Even the stack of magazines on the coffee table looked as if they were there for decoration. The hall was similarly bare, with the only personal thing there being Daphne’s purse. Except for some tissues and make-up, it held only a galleon bag full of gold and, surprisingly, a muggle credit card.

In contrast, the study was a different realm. Robes, pieces of fabric and magazines littered almost every available surface. A spacious mahogany desk was overflowing with parchment, notebooks, photos and sketches, some of them moving and some of them not, all in a jumble. Harry fished out Daphne’s planner and thumbed through it before putting in his pocket.

Beside owl treats and vials of the Pepper-Up-Plus, drawers were chock-full of photos and correspondence. Unfortunately, the latter revealed nothing of value. Adverts, letters from fans, offers to endorse this or that product, bank statements, invitations to this or that party or event: it was startlingly similar to the mail Harry still received on a regular basis. Harry shrunk everything and added to the planner, followed by a thick letter from Tracey Davis. On the first glance, it seemed to be all about her pregnancy, in far more detail than Harry ever wanted to know. It was the only piece of personal correspondence in the pile.

The liquor cabinet behind the desk was stocked exceedingly well with both wizarding and muggle booze. Malfoy helped himself to a generous serving of Ogden’s with ice cubes from an enchanted icebox and poured Astoria some citrusy liqueur.

“A drink?” he offered belatedly, good manners winning the battle over the entrenched animosity.

Harry declined. Even Malfoy’s presence wouldn’t drive him to getting pissed on the job; however tempting the prospect might be.

An abstract wizarding painting—moving black lines and changing geometric shapes of different colours—hid a poorly warded safe. There were stacks of galleons and pounds as well as more potions inside, this time not so easily identifiable. Hopefully, Severus would make sense of them. There was also a folder with sketches of women in extravagant gowns. Wings, scaly dresses fit like a glove, furry overcoats; one model had a hippogriff skull headpiece. Magical beasts and creatures seemed to be the theme of the collection.

Astoria furrowed her brow, looking through them, and closed her eyes for a moment. Harry threw her a questioning look.

“These must be Daphne’s sketches. I didn’t know she was working on her own designs.”

The bookshelves held old fashion magazines, art books, and crime novels, muggle and wizarding in equal proportion. Harry opened an Agatha Christie at random and a photo slipped from between the pages. Two little girls, one blonde and one brown-haired, smiled toothily at the camera in front of a big layered cake.

“My eighth birthday,” Astoria said from behind his shoulder before turning abruptly to the window.

Next was the bedroom dominated with a queen-sized bed with a canopy. Large pictures of Daphne from a professional photoshoot covered one of the walls: black and white with splashes of red from her lipstick and dress. She looked sexy and aloof with her pouty lips and faraway stare. The photos were magical, for her hair and dress fluttered as if in the wind, but she herself didn’t interact with the camera, frozen in time.

There were two more photos on the dresser, very different from those on the wall. On the first one, Daphne—no older than fifteen—was braiding Tracey Davis’s hair in the Slytherin common room. Both girls were smiling, unaware of being photographed. Suddenly, Tracey spotted the photographer and elbowed Daphne, who then threw a cushion at the camera and dissolved into laughter. Harry watched the loop repeating twice before noticing teenage Pansy on the background. His future partner was leaning to Malfoy and whispering something into his ear with the familiar sly expression on her face. The second photo was of Daphne with the woman from the photo Astoria had shown Harry in the restaurant, this time in a different turban and sunglasses. They were at some picturesque waterfront, hugging a palm tree.

Harry did his best to be clinical while examining the insides of the dresser, but couldn’t help the furious blush spreading across his face after stumbling across a collection of toys in the bedside table. Astoria sent a spluttering Malfoy out of the room.

He sifted through the jewellery on the vanity, but the onyx necklace Parvati had mentioned earlier wasn’t there.

“I happen to know Daphne had bought a necklace shortly before her death, gold with a big oval onyx. Have you seen it, perhaps?”

“No, nothing like that. It doesn’t at all sound like something she would choose for herself. She must’ve bought it as a gift.”

Harry didn’t know the first thing about jewellery except that lockets and big gaudy rings were to be avoided at all cost, but had to agree with Astoria. It wasn’t at all Daphne’s style. There were plenty of delicate diamond earrings and dainty gold necklaces, but nothing like the picture Parvati had sent him the day before. The closest thing to it here was a snake bracelet that curled around his wrist as soon as Harry took it, giving him a start. But even this piece with its finely detailed scales and emerald eyes didn’t have much in common with the thick solid gold of the chain with a big stone.

The walk-in closet was overflowing with clothes, shoes, and bags. No stretched, washed-out T-shirts or old Hogwarts robes that inhabited Harry’s own wardrobe; everything looked fashionable and new. Many pieces had the price tags still attached. It took Harry ages to go through all the pockets and purses. During this time, Malfoy returned to the room, bored and antsy, to comment on Harry’s every move. Harry was honestly surprised he had lasted that long.

“Must you check everything by hand like a common Muggle? That’s what _Accio_ is for, you know. Have you never used it since that time you were showing off with summoning your broom in our fourth year?” Malfoy started to raise his wand.

“Don’t!” Harry stopped him sharply. “I can summon everything from every pocket in one second, sure. But how would I know which pocket each thing came from?”

He fished a flyer out of a hidden pocket of a nondescript black robe. It turned out to be an invite to the club called _Dark Desires_ promising to fulfil your deepest fantasies. Taking one look at the suggestive card, Malfoy fled the room once again, two splotches of pink on his cheeks.

The bathroom had a sleek modern shower stall and a huge marble bath. White cabinets were overflowing with bottles, tubs, jars, and other witch-only items. Harry had only a vague idea of the purpose of many of those. Nothing stood out except for two more Party-Ups, two Patented Daydream Charms from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, and a row of the Hangover Cure vials. Going back to the living room, Harry felt a pang of sadness. For all the glamorous lifestyle of hers, Daphne Greengrass seemed to lead a very lonely existence.

Finished with the search, for now, Harry returned to the portrait. “Can you tell me who came here after Daphne’s death?”

“I’ve only seen family members. And nobody after they took her... the body away, except for you two on Sunday.” Benedict looked over to Astoria and Malfoy. “But as I’ve already told you, I’d spent little time here until then. It was unbearable, being here in the empty apartment and knowing that Daphne would never come here again. So I was mostly at the Manor, even though my portrait there leaves much to be desired, to be perfectly honest. But after your visit, I’ve been here all the time. Nobody came here.”

“Thank you, Benedict. Please keep watch.” Astoria nodded to the portrait. She turned to Harry. “Do you need anything else?”

She was eager to leave, although she wasn’t as obvious at that as Malfoy, who made a show of taking a pocket watch out of his robes for the third time already. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he transfigured it for this very purpose. Who even carried pocket watches anymore?

“No, I’m finished for now,” said Harry.

He had to return soon, if only to question the neighbours, but he would much prefer to do that without an audience.

“Well, that was a Sunday well-spent,” Malfoy muttered as they left the building. “At least we can finally present concrete proof that the sun doesn’t shine out of Goldstein’s—”

Astoria coughed.

“Don’t approach Goldstein,” Harry warned.

“Do you doubt my ability to make that parchment pusher crack, Potter?” Malfoy’s voice rose.

“Malfoy. I don’t doubt your abilities to crack anything in the slightest; I know from experience that they exceed expectations. However. I’m a professional. You hired me because of that. Let me do my job.” Annoyance bubbled inside Harry. It was just like Malfoy to be difficult.

“We trust you to get to the bottom of this, Harry,” Astoria said, putting an appeasing hand on Malfoy’s arm.

“I’ll contact you if there are any new developments. Until then, please do nothing without consulting with me first,” said Harry.

The clients who took initiative were always a pain in the arse. Of course, Malfoy’s entire existence was to be just that, so he shouldn’t have expected anything different.

“Yes, yes, we got it, Potter. Goodbye already.”

The three of them disapparated, watched only by the pigeons on the pavement and a woman in the window of the ground floor.


	4. Chapter 4

Slowly, Harry surfaced to consciousness to the pleasant heaviness of a strong arm around his stomach. He turned around carefully, taking in his lover’s sleeping face. Relaxed, with the frown lines smoothed and his black hair fanned around the pillow, Severus looked a decade younger.

“Finished staring?” Severus asked without cracking an eye open.

Giving in to a silly urge, Harry placed a kiss on the bridge of the aquiline nose.

“I’ve told you not to do that,” Severus growled, and Harry found himself pinned under his very much awake form.

“If that was meant to dissuade me, you’re doing the exact opposite,” Harry laughed breathily, hooking his leg around Severus’s hip.

Much later, when they finally got out of the bed and went down to the kitchen, Harry remembered about the vials from Daphne Greengrass’s flat.

“I’ve got some potions from yesterday. Would you help me identify them?” he asked, cracking eggs into the frying pan. He didn’t bother with making proper breakfast often—the process brought too many memories of the miserable time with the Dursleys—but cooking for Severus felt different.

“Bring it on.”

The yesterday’s robe was right there in the kitchen, unlike several other items of clothing they left behind the night before. It must have been Kreacher who took them away to the laundry, although Harry wouldn’t put it past Severus to get up at night just to gather the clothes. He was particular about having all the things in their proper places, unlike Harry who created chaos everywhere, vowing to change his ways every other week. Like right now, when he was elbows deep in the extended pocket of his robe. The heaps of sheer  _ stuff _ inside included everything from useful magical trinkets to weeks-old Chocolate Frog wrappers.

“Aha!” Harry gave a triumphant cry as he extracted the potions.

While Harry was flipping the bacon, Severus uncorked the vials one by one.

“Euphoria Elixir, some sludge that was most likely intended to be Infatuation Infusion, and Sleep-Stop Solution: this dose would let you go without sleep for up to a week. Highly addictive and banned in Britain together with most of the world.”

“Infatuation Infusion... Is it some love potion, like Amortentia?” Harry asked, making a face. He had seen more love potions than he was comfortable with in his field of work. Enough to convince George and Ron to stop selling them, with sound approval from Hermione.

“It is considered a love potion, yes. But instead of targeting someone specific, a user applies it to themselves to appear more desirable to the people around.”

“Like a Veela effect?”

“Indeed.”

“Is it even legal?”

“It’s frowned upon and regulated. You cannot use it in Wizengamot, formal competitions and such.”

“Huh.”

“I’m glad I finally managed to teach you something about potions,” Severus said dryly.

“Haha, very funny. I’ve learned a lot from the best. Like the Half-Blood Prince, for example.”

He filled their plates and put them on the table. A steaming coffee pot and cups flew over as well with a wave of Severus’s wand.

“But anyway, I wonder what her issue with not sleeping was,” continued Harry, picking up the cutlery. “She had Party-Ups all around her flat.”

“And then the foolish girl decided to mix it with Remembrine,” said Severus. “That potion alone can easily cause brain damage, but together with the stimulants that had likely been building up in Miss Greengrass’s body for a while... It’s no surprise that the effect was lethal.”

“Yeah, I’ve tried it.”

“Oh, have you?” Severus asked softly.

“Yeah. Felt like  _ Cruciatus _ to the head.” Harry nodded. Then he looked over from his plate.

Severus was silent for a moment. His eyebrows were pinched, and a vein pulsed at his temple. Maybe not keeping his mouth shut was a mistake, Harry thought, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

“What were you thinking?! Did you want to join the Longbottoms in the nice padded ward at St. Mungo’s?” And here it was. “This potion has the same effect as the Cruciatus Curse on the nervous system, directed to the brain. Which would be lost on you as you lack one, deciding to try something like that!”

“It was only once and I’m not going to do it again.” Harry reached to take Severus’s hand in his. “I got Obliviated in the middle of the case and needed to restore the memories.”

“Legilimency is a much safer way around almost any mental block.”

“Then I know whom to ask the next time.” Harry gave Severus a winning smile.

“Reckless and foolish.” Severus harrumphed, picking up the fork again. “Wherever did you even get the potion?”

“Romilda Vane. She used to brew most of the complicated potions for me. I must pay her a call, by the way, because the Party-Up in Daphne’s flat is definitely hers.”

“Vane is adequate,” Severus said grudgingly. “Though I suspect the official Potions community sees only a fraction of her effort.”

“Yeah, she’s got… peculiar interests.”

“Didn’t she try to feed you a love potion once?”

“She still tries that sometimes. It’s her idea of a running joke.” At least she stopped sending him chocolates laced with Amortentia every birthday and Christmas after learning that he usually got at least two boxes of those. Unfortunately, this only made her more creative.

Severus contemplated Harry for a moment, eyebrows raised to the forehead.

Harry gave a rueful smile. “Why do you think I got that lab and learned to brew most of the potions by myself?”

* * *

Daphne Greengrass did her fair share of modelling, wrote an occasional editorial for the Witch Weekly and had her own Sunday radio show. Choosing between the lesser of two evils, Harry headed for the wireless station.

After all these years, people still dropped their things and gawked at him as he made his way to the third floor of the building over Flourish and Blotts. Harry wished he had bothered with a disguise, but he tried to avoid relying on them too much unless it was necessary for the job. In the aftermath of leaving the Aurors and the deluge of articles analyzing his every move, past and present, and claiming he had finally cracked, he had formed an unhealthy habit of never leaving his house as himself. So in recent years, Harry made a point of wearing his own face in public. After Voldemort, reporters and paparazzi would not be the ones to scare him off or ever dictate his actions.

Having pocked his head into several doors, Harry finally found the one he was looking for.

“—While the weather in the rest of Scotland is nice and sunny, it’s raining cats and dogs in Hogsmead. Literally cats and dogs, as well as small rodents. The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes is sorting everything out right now, but if you’re planning to pop to Three B’s for a glass or two, don’t forget a sturdy umbrella!” Lee Jordan chattered into the microphone, fiddling with an enormous control board in front of him. Noticing Harry, he smiled and waved his hand. “And right now, my favourite summer jam,  _ Love Hit Me Like A Stunner  _ by Sally-Anne and the Perks!”

Lee lowered the headphones he’d been wearing as soon as the song started playing.

“Hiya, Harry, my man! Long time no see! Has Alicia finally dragged you in for an interview?”

“Sorry, Lee. I’m here for work,” said Harry. ”I'm the one with questions this time if you can spare a couple of minutes.”

“Is it about Daphne?” Lee’s affable face grew serious.

Harry nodded, surprised.

“Wait a moment. I’m doing a Quidditch segment now and then I’ll have a break.”

Listening to Lee talking about the new Nimbus Galaxy and Oliver Wood’s return to the ranks of Puddlemore United after his injury brought a feeling of nostalgia; even more so when Alicia Spinnet joined them in the broadcasting studio. An elderly wizard trotted in her tow with a basket of giant vegetables, dropping it with a gasp as soon as he saw Harry.

“—Let’s give another listen to The Weird Sisters with _Do the Hippogriff_ , oldie but goodie, before I give the mic over to my amazing colleague Alicia Spinnet. Stay tuned to hear from this year’s winner of the biggest Tomato Competition held by the British Gardening Society. Personally, I cannot wait to learn how he’s managed such a feat!”

“Biggest tomato competition?” Harry mouthed incredulously.

They left the studio and went next door, to the staff lounge.  With beanie chairs and a big board with a schedule floated in the air, it looked as if it belonged more to a nursery than any place where adults gathered.

“Well, it’s 10.30 in the morning. You need to fill the air somehow.” Lee shrugged, taking two butterbeers from the icebox and giving one to Harry. “Besides, you have no idea how popular those competitions are. Quidditch can’t hold a candle to scandals, intrigue and backstabbing of the old geezers from the Gardening Society.”

“Backstabbing, really?”

But then, Harry remembered Aunt Petunia and the lengths she would go to outshine the neighbours with her perfect garden. Usually by working Harry ragged.

“The winner of five previous years in a row was Madam Marchbanks, that ancient witch from the OWL and NEWT examination commission,” said Lee. “She also wins every Gardenia Contest. I can’t tell you how many anonymous calls we’ve had accusing her of using Dark Arts in her garden and demanding an independent investigation.”

Harry nearly choked on the first sip of his butterbeer, recalling Severus’s story.

“But I guess you didn’t come here to learn about the dark underbelly of the gardening contests.”

“You never know when such insights will come in useful,” Harry said, only half-joking. “But no, I wanted to ask you about Daphne Greengrass. ” Discussing the woman’s demise felt weird while lounging on a canary-yellow floating bag. He planted his feet firmly.

“We weren’t exactly friends—moved in different circles and all that—but she was a decent person, especially for a Pureblood Slytherin from big money.” Lee didn’t need further prompting to start talking. “People didn’t give her enough credit, thinking she’s just another pretty face wasting her inheritance away for party and robes. Don’t take me wrong, that was a big part of her life. But she was so much more than that.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She was passionate about art; even had some muggle design classes, can you believe it?”

“Yes, I’ve got that impression.” Harry thought of the number of costume history books on Daphne’s shelves.

“She might have come across as a bit haughty, but she was never less than polite and friendly to everyone, from fans to colleagues. Even to interns. Even to the blokes making a pass at her, when she told them to get lost.”

For the next ten minutes, Lee waxed poetic on Daphne’s character and work ethics. His eyes shone. It was obvious that he had liked Daphne more than just a colleague he’d seen once a week. His picture of her was very different from Pansy’s, although not necessarily contradictory.

“She took her programme here very seriously. Always on time and prepared,” he said. “Except for the last month, that is. Then the strange behaviour started.”

“What do you mean?”

“She would come at the last minute, always worried over something. I saw her putting glamour over dark circles under her eyes once,” Lee said with a frown. “Drank uppers like it’s pumpkin juice. You remember George that first year after the war, so you know how dangerous that stuff can be.”

Harry nodded. George didn’t have the healthiest ways of coping with Fred’s death in the beginning, and the family didn’t catch up soon enough.

“And she had some lapses in her memory, too.” Lee lowered his voice, even though there was nobody around them.

“Lapses in memory?”

“I ran into her in Gringotts once, but she barely acknowledged me when I said hello. After I asked her about that the next day, she was shocked she had even been there, and questioned me about every moment.”

“Do you remember when exactly that happened?” Harry asked, taking out a notebook and a pen. That was something that warranted a closer look.

“Let me see.” Lee tugged at his dreadlock. “It was Saturday, because the _Witching Hour_ airs on Sundays. I think it was her first one in June, two weeks before her death.”

“Did she mention anybody in particular? Her fiancé, perhaps?”

“That wanker!” Lee put his butterbeer bottle on the table with force. ‘No, she hadn’t mentioned anybody and much less him lately, and it explains so much. If I were—” He trailed off, looking away.

“You know Goldstein?” Harry asked instead of pressing the issue.

“Not personally. I went to Daphne’s sister and then to him after learning about her death from the fucking Prophet. Told them everything I’ve told you.”

“Oh? And what did they say?” Astoria didn’t mention Lee.

“They both basically told me to fuck off. Very courteously in case of the sister, and much less politely in case of Goldstein.”

“It’s actually Astoria Greengrass who hired me.”

After recent revelations, news about Anthony Goldstein came as no surprise. Astoria was a trickier case, though. She hadn’t got on with her sister particularly well, that much was clear, but how deep did the animosity run? Harry filed the question away for later.

“Well, maybe not all’s lost for her yet, even if she’s dating that git Malfoy. So tell me, it wasn’t a simple case of overdose, was it?” The dark eyes bore into Harry with intensity unusual for the laid-back and ever-cheerful ex-Gryffindor.

Harry sighed. Despite—or maybe because of—best efforts from the Greengrasses to hush up the details, everybody came to the most obvious conclusion anyway.

“Not exactly,” he said. “Not with drugs. I can’t say any more yet.”

“Was she poisoned?” Lee’s eyes widened.

“No, it was an accident.” Better nip the rumours in the bud.

“Oh.”

“But there was something fishy going on in the last months before her death, and I’m investigating that.”

“Tell me if you need anything, I’ll be happy to help,” said Lee. “Somebody should. She seemed to have so many friends, but all this month, I’ve been hearing only from bloody vultures.”

“Thank you, Lee. By the way, do you have any recordings of her show?” asked Harry. “I thought I’d listen to one to see what it’s like.”

Lee grinned, his solemn mood lifting. “Don’t keep up with the _Witching Hour_ , you say? Oh, but I know exactly which one to show you.”

They left the lounge and went to the archive room, a windowless closet wall-to-wall with old records, tapes, and CDs. A dingy desk was squeezed between the shelves. A familiar freckled girl with strawberry-blond hair was sitting there, scribbling something in a big ledger.

“Emma dear, get Harry here a recording of the last WH Daphne did,” Lee said in a businesslike voice. “And find me that radio play about the star crossed lovers from Cardiff and cursed turnips.”

“On it, Mr. Jordan,” said Emma Weasley, a Hogwarts student and a big help in the investigation of Alexander Rowle’s disappearance. She stood up from the desk, careful not to bring down precarious stacks of records, each one was at least two feet high. Her eyes widened slightly as she noticed Harry. “Hello, Professor Potter.”

“I suppose I’ll go back to the studio now, _Professor Potter_ , or Alicia will have my head for leaving her alone with Mr. Big Tomato for so long,” Lee said with a grin. “Don’t be a stranger, Harry, and please do Daphne’s memory justice.”

“A summer job?” Harry asked as the door closed behind Lee.

“Yeah. Always wanted to be on the wireless.”

“How do you like it?”

“I hoped they’d let me to the mic at least once.” Emma scowled. ”But all I do is cataloguing this old junk and making coffee.” Her hand went across the CD rack closest to the door. “Alex gets to do much more exciting stuff in Gringotts.”

“How is he, by the way?”

“Great. They took him as an intern thanks to Mr. Weasley’s… Bill’s referral, so he’ll be able to get an apprenticeship next year unless he screws up his NEWTs completely.”

“I’m glad he’s doing fine after the last year.”

“Yeah, me too. Aha! Found it.” A CD jumped from its case. “I wish I’d got to meet Daphne Greengrass. She was such an icon. That last show—” Emma trailed off with a funny look in Harry’s direction.

“What about it?”

“Oh, you haven’t actually heard?”

“Unfortunately, I missed this particular episode of my favourite radio programme,” Harry deadpanned.

“Well, enjoy, then!” Emma tapped the CD with her wand.

It flew up in the air and spun madly. Then, without a player or any device whatsoever, the sound of the music intro filled the room.

_ “Hello and welcome to Witching Hour, the show where we talk about fashion, trends, and latest celebrity news. It’s me, Daphne Greengrass, your all-time host and beauty enthusiast, and oh Circe!—we have a lot to talk about today. But first, our regular feature,  _ Hot or Not _!” _

_You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me_ , one of Mrs. Weasley’s favourite songs, started playing on the background. 

_ “Celestina Warbeck was the talk of the Midsommer Gala this year with her sequined magenta robes with a standing collar and a train made of live hummingbirds and fairies. While some loved this bold choice, many of us wonder whether our Singing Sorceress is trying too hard in her attempts to stay relevant in the new millennium against younger, up-and-coming stars. Sally-Anne from Sally-Anne and the Perks certainly didn’t need any flashy accessories to shine on the red carpet with her stylish black dress. _

_ “Black silk, clear lines, a short cape and a silver snake choker: what—or, rather, who—was the inspiration behind our favourite rock diva’s statement dress? I bet we’ll see these trends a lot this summer, and the reason for them is the man whose distinctive style is familiar to every Hogwarts alumni of the two last decades. Yes, I’m talking about the one and only Severus Snape—the wizard who snatched the heart of the enfant terrible of the wizarding world, Harry Potter himself!” _

What in the name of Merlin’s soggy bollocks—?! Harry’s mouth fell open. There was a sound suspiciously close to a snicker coming from Emma, but when he looked over at her, she was busying herself with the shelf of old records, her face blank.

_ “Despite his fame and roguish good looks, our former Boy-Who-Lived and the Man-Who-Conquered never quite managed to become a trendsetter, avoiding all the hottest events like plague and settling for safe choices every time he does attend a function every once a year or so. In his daily life, Harry prefers casual clothes and has been criticised for a number of fashion faux-pas he’s been known to make repeatedly, although I must admit that his style has improved in the recent years.” _

Because letting Pansy buy his clothes was easier than listening to her carping.

_ “As you, my dear listeners, surely know from the news, Britain was shaken by a series of scandals from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this winter, and our Saviour played a crucial role in solving numerous crimes going on there and exposing the true nature of certain respected members of our society. After that, Mr. Potter graciously agreed to share his experience in battling forces of evil as a Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor for the rest of the year. According to our sources, that’s when his unexpected affair with the snarky Potions Master started. Although I, your humble host, had the privilege to share the Potions and Defence classes with Harry myself, and let me tell you, the passion was always there. Not to imply anything improper, of course.” _

Harry’s sympathy for Daphne Greengrass was melting away faster than the Chudley Cannons’ chances for winning the League Cup. Catching Emma’s curious stare, he shook his head madly. Severus didn’t need  _ that  _ kind of rumours.

_ “So, let’s look at the strengths of Severus Snape’s style that attracted the Hero of the wizarding world himself! Don’t worry, you need not go around all buttoned up in a floor-length black robe to be on trend this summer. Instead, stick to the dark monochrome pieces with a minimalist cut, high neck and rows of decorative buttons. Another option is a long open robe to wear with short dresses and heels, but make sure it billows as you walk!” _

“Okay, I got the gist,” Harry said incredulously. Meanwhile, Daphne switched to the hair trends of the summer. “Can you make me a copy?” he asked after a moment of hesitation. He was torn between burying it and forgetting this recording ever existed and teasing Severus with it mercilessly.

“Sure.” Emma tapped the CD, stopping the recording. “ _ Gemino _ .”

Harry wished they were still at Hogwarts, because the cheeky look she gave him deserved at least twenty points from Slytherin.

“I remember Lee asking you for some radio play,” he grumbled instead. “I’m pretty sure you found it ages ago.”

“‘The Cursed Garden’.” She showed him an old-fashioned record in a faded sleeve.

“People take this seriously?” Harry couldn’t help but ask the question burning on his tongue as they exited the archive room.

“Love stories with turnips?”

“The programme.”

“Oh, yes. Totally. Even the Gryffindor girls.” Emma brushed an invisible speck of dust from the dark green open robe she wore over the sundress. “Bye, Professor.”


	5. Chapter 5

Goldstein, Goldstein & Young stood right next to Gringotts. You could walk past it twice a day for years and never notice the simple sign plate on the wooden door, so close the wacky and ostentatious architecture of the wizarding bank. Inside, however, the law firm was nothing like on the outside. The reception was all marble and crystal chandeliers. Haughty witches and wizards in formal robes stared down their noses at the visitors from the portraits, and magical windows showed Diagon Alley in London, a skyscraper in New York and a street in Zurich, if the golden plaques with the city names were to be believed.

Harry was shown to Anthony’s office by a no-nonsense witch with her hair in a severe bun who reminded him very much of McGonagall. He half expected her to summon  _ P&P Investigative Services _ ’s tax statement with corrections made in red ink and give him a piece of her mind about doing his paperwork properly.

Everything in the office, from the enormous dark oak desk to the widow showing London from the bird’s eye view, was carefully crafted to convey success and prestige. To Harry’s surprise, a computer and a modern office phone cohabitated with a marble abacus floating in the air. Most Ministry officials hadn’t discovered television yet.

Anthony Goldstein, in a formal purple robe and already balding, was standing behind his impressive desk, putting scrolls of parchment into a briefcase.

“Harry! What a surprise!” he said with a professional smile. “Please take a seat.”

Harry sat down in a leather chair, almost jumping back up when it moulded itself to him, making him settle back and sink deeper. The softness invited the sitter to relax and drop their guard.

He needed a chair like that in his own office. Preferably with a design that didn’t scream ‘Pretentious Pureblood Prat.’

“Going somewhere?” asked Harry.

“Oh, I’m switching to our New York office for the next six months at least. With what happened to Daphne—” Goldstein glanced away. “I need a change of scenery for the foreseeable future.” He shut the briefcase and put it away, sitting down with oddly exaggerated care.

“My condolences.”

“Thank you. So if you are here for a big project, such as an audit, I’ll refer you to another—”

“No, no, I’m not here for that. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about Daphne.”

“Oh?” The temperature in the room dropped.

“Yes. Astoria hired me because of some new information that’s come up.”

“Information?”

“Not everything is so clear-cut about the circumstances of your fiancé’s death as was previously believed.” Harry let his statement hang in the air, fully aware of how ambiguous it sounded. He intended to bait Goldstein a bit. People tended to share more than they otherwise would have and give all sorts of unexpected insights when thrown off-balance.

“So what, I’m a suspect now?” Goldstein’s voice rose high.

_ Well, aren’t we nervous? _

“Of course not, Anthony. I just wanted to ask you about your last interaction with Daphne. Did she mention anything strange?”

“Not really, no. She didn’t mention—Oh, fuck it.” Goldstein ran his hand over his face. “You know what? I was in America for two months—during which time we exchanged exactly one owl, writing of nothing in particular: weather, relatives, work—and then we broke up. We broke up a week before her death.”

“Astoria didn’t mention that.” Harry played ignorance.

“Ha! It’s not like they ever talked outside family dinners. Always at odds, as long as I can remember. Even back at Hogwarts.”

“Really?”

“You bet. The one thing Astoria seemed to be upset about at the funeral was having to reschedule her own wedding.”

“You never said anything to the family,” Harry said, letting the implied question hang in the air.

“Well, it didn’t quite matter anymore, did it? I didn’t want to cause more pain to her parents if I could help it. They are good people.” Goldstein looked away. “I don’t know why she never told them herself. Perhaps she didn’t have the time. Or wanted to wait for the right moment. I don’t know.”

“Maybe she hoped you’d get back together.”

“Like hell she did!” he burst out, then shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

“Why? Was she the one to break up with you?”

“No, it was me, actually. We—I’ve been working in our overseas office more than here for over a year now, and we didn’t see or hear from each other for months on end. Don’t get me wrong, Daphne was an amazing woman, gorgeous and smart, but it simply wasn’t working. I honestly thought she agreed.” He fidgeted. “But apparently not, because she didn’t take the news well.”

“Flock of angry birds in your direction?” Harry asked, remembering Hermione in their sixth year.

“If only. No, it was some nasty curse that was very, very hard to lift.” Unattractive blotches of red bloomed on his cheeks.

“When exactly did this happen?”

“June the seventh. The day I returned to London. And afterwards, I was in a private facility in Switzerland, although Daphne’s death, naturally, brought my treatment short.” Now, even his ears reddened. “I’m only telling you this to dispel any insinuations that I had anything to do with it.”

“I’m not suspecting you of anything, Anthony,” Harry said in a placating tone. It made Goldstein even more anxious, as it was intended to do. “I only want to find out the truth.”

“Yes, well. My alibi is iron-clad, just so you know,” he said, as if things like alibi mattered one whit when it came to magic.

Perhaps he shared his ex-fiancé’s love for crime novels. On the other hand, the couple didn’t seem to share much of anything. Harry glanced at the painting on the wall behind Goldstein’s desk. Cypress trees and old ruins; a Merlin-like wizard raising his wand on the hillside. They certainly didn’t share a taste in fine arts.

“I realise that it was a private moment, Antony, but could you maybe share the memory of—”

“No!” Goldstein interrupted, shaking his head frantically.

“You do realise that if Aurors get involved, you won’t be able to avoid the scandal? No matter how iron-clad your alibi is. They aren’t known for respecting people’s privacy,” Harry pressed.

In truth, the Greengrasses would never go to the DMLE willingly, but Goldstein didn’t need to know that.

“Scandal?” Goldstein asked faintly.

Harry nodded. He waited in silence for a moment, letting the hook sink in.

“Fine. Fine!” He conjured a vial and jerked a silver thread out of his temple. “Just so you see for yourself that I didn’t do anything to her. Nothing at all!” He made a complicated gesture with his wand before stoppering the vial and handed it to Harry, an air of smugness somewhat back about him. “The memory will self-destruct after the viewing. Our proprietary spell.”

“Thank you, Anthony.”

He ushered Harry out his office soon after that, mopping his brow with a no doubt monogrammed handkerchief. Harry didn’t know what to make of him. Goldstein was acting rather suspiciously, especially in the view of his prompt relocation across the Atlantic. Yet he had valid—if rather selfish—reasons for that. Hopefully, the memory would clear things up a bit.

Back in the office, Pansy was leafing through some sort of an antiques catalogue, thick and colourful. With a tap of her wand, the pieces would pop from the pages to present themselves from all sides.

“Awfully nice of a black market auction to make such professional newsletters,” she mused, leaning forward to inspect the three-dimensional image of a grandfather clock. Every so often, the hour face would open, and a tiny ghost with outstretched hands would appear like a cuckoo.

“Look! Isn’t it adorable?”

“Will it try to strangle you in your sleep?” After years of sharing the building with a cursebreaking service, one was bound to pick up some patterns.

“Who do you take these honest antique dealers for?” Pansy clasped her hands over her chest in mock offence. “Of course it will.”

“Still no book?”

“Nah. But there are a couple of ruby sets Parvati might like.”

Harry was starting to suspect Pansy’s interest in their former classmate was more than professional. After all, she wasn’t in the habit of drinking with just any of her clients or redecorating the office for them. Pansy swung both ways, but she didn’t have a meaningful relationship since Malfoy. Maybe this time the crush would lead to something more, and Pansy would finally leave the past behind.

“Shut up, Potter,” Pansy said defensively.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“What do you have there, anyway?” She looked curiously at the vial in his hands.

“Oh, Goldstein shared the memory of breaking up with Greengrass.”

“So what are we waiting for?” Pansy rubbed her hands together and summoned the Pensieve.

“Should you watch it? I suspect there’s something embarrassing here,” said Harry.

And wasn’t that exactly the wrong thing to say?

Pansy’s eyes lit up. “Two pairs of eyes are always better than one!” She didn’t even try not to sound eager.

“Oh, yes?”

“Besides, I’m the soul of discretion, you know that.” She mimed sewing her mouth shut. “Bring it on.”

Harry poured the memory into their Pensieve and took a plunge into the swirling silvery-white substance, neither liquid nor gas. With a jerk in his navel, his feet left the floor. He fell for a few mad seconds before landing outside the front door to Daphne Greengrass’s flat.

To his right, Anthony Goldstein was shifting from foot to foot, raising his hand to the doorbell and lowering it again mid-motion. Pansy appeared on the other side of him as he finally found the courage to ring.

There was a minute before the door opened. During that time, Goldstein visibly fought an urge to leave twice. At last, Daphne Greengrass appeared in a silken house robe with embroidered herons charmed to fly along the hem. Her hair was done perfectly, falling in loose golden curls past her shoulder blades. She had a glass of wine in her hand, even though the sun outside of the window was still in its zenith.

“Tony. What a pleasant surprise, darling."

For a moment, she looked as if it was anything but, before settling into a polite—if not especially warm—smile. Stepping aside, she let Goldstein in and led him into the living room. Harry and Pansy followed.

The room was just as Harry remembered it from his visit the day before, if a bit softer in candlelight.

“Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you. I—I’d like to talk to you about something, Daphne.” Goldstein tugged at the collar of his stuffy robe.

“What is it?” A hint of impatience crept into Daphne’s voice.

She turned her back on him, straightening the stack of books and magazines on the coffee table. Beside the bottle of wine standing there as well, it was the only indication that this place was a part of an actual, inhabited flat rather than a showroom.

“I—You know I love you, right?” Goldstein asked, taking a deep breath. Harry watched those familiar spots of pink appear on his pale cheeks.

“I love you too, dear,” Daphne said distractedly.

“But I don’t think what I—what we both feel for each other is still romantic love, you know what I mean?” Goldstein was slipping a heavy ring on and off his finger now.

Daphne turned to face him, her smooth features showing no indication of her thoughts. “What are you saying?”

“Listen, Daph, you know we haven’t seen much of each other for the past months. For the past year, actually.” Goldstein was wringing his hands now. “You’re an amazing woman, the best, and I’m sure any man would be happy to be with you. But I feel—and you have to agree—that we don’t work as a couple anymore.” With that, he took off the ring one final time and carefully put it on the mantelpiece between them.

“Good speech. How many times did you rehearse it in front of the mirror?” Daphne’s voice sounded calm and derisive. “Who is she?”

“W-what do you mean?”

“Come off it. This union was never about sweeping romance, and it never bothered you before. You’re too much of a milksop to break off the engagement without another woman pushing for it.”

“It doesn’t matter who she is.” His chin raised in defiance. “We met through work in America, and she just—She’s also from my field, and she gets me, gets me like nobody else.”

“What is there to get?” Daphne’s upper lip curled. “You’ve had a gorgeous woman from the cream of the crop of the British pureblood families, and you chose some lowly quill driver instead.”

“Katy isn’t—Anyway, that’s all I wanted to tell you. I’m sorry Daphne, truly, I am.”

Eyes downcast, Goldstein turned to leave just as Daphne raised her wand.

“But not as sorry as you should be.  _ Testiculis Imputresce _ !”

Goldstein’s hands flew to his crotch, and he bent double, gasping for air. Daphne regarded him as if he was something unpleasant stuck to the sole of her shoe. Another wave of her wand, and the door banged open in the hall.

“You’d better leave now before I decide to try out some more of these intriguing spells on you.” Her fingers caressed the stack on the coffee table, an edge of an old tome peeking out from between a glossy muggle book and a thick magazine.

Pansy gasped.

Goldstein nodded frantically, face scrunched in pain, and limped to the door in a half-crouch.

The memory clouded, and with a tug to his navel, Harry found himself back on the floor of the office. The silvery mist coalesced in the middle of the stone basin and dissolved in the air with a quiet ‘poof’.

“What was that?” Pansy asked, startled.

“Goldstein spelled the memory to self-destruct after the viewing.” Harry hoped it wasn’t harmful to his Pensieve since he was rather attached to it.

“Didn’t he realise that we’d still have our own memories of viewing it?” Pansy scoffed.

Harry shrugged. He had thought of that too but didn’t see the point of bringing it to the Goldstein’s attention. The man was so proud of his own and his firm’s inventiveness, after all.

“But never mind that.” Pansy waved her hand. “Was that book on the coffee table what I think it was?”

“It’s hard to say from the way it was hidden inside that pile, but it definitely looked like it could be.” Harry nodded.

“Shit.”

“But why would Daphne Greengrass of all people need one of the nastiest Dark Arts books in existence?”

“Well, after that performance? I always knew she was a stone-cold bitch, but I had no idea about the extent of it.”

“That spell was certainly no Rash-Inducing Hex. Goldstein seems to have problems sitting to this day.” Harry’s hand itched to cover his bits protectively.

“How did it go again?  _ Testiculis _ something...  _ Testiculis Imputresce _ ?”

“It’s a very Dark curse you’re talking about, Parkinson,” Severus spoke up behind them. “I’d thank you not to use it on my lover’s privates. I’m rather attached to them, and reversing the effects would be a very long and troublesome process.” 

Harry turned around to face Severus standing in the doorway. “So it’s only my privates you’re attached to? I see how it is.” His smile belied the offended tone of his voice.

“What does it do, exactly?” Pansy asked.

“Makes your testicles rot away.”

“Ouch,” Harry said.

“Ouch, indeed. Bellatrix once cursed her brother-in-law with it back in the first war, for getting too handsy with her. Obviously, he didn’t wish to go to St Mungo’s, so I was tasked with treating him.” Severus sneered. “Removing and regrowing Rabastan Lestrange’s decaying scrotum and a month of custom potions applied topically several times a day. I fully expected the experience to drive me off men forever so I would live the rest of my days celibate.” He shuddered, but then bared his teeth in a rather nasty manner. “I did make sure Rabastan wouldn’t be able to get it up any time soon, to prevent further incidents.”

“You’re a devious man, Professor,” Pansy cackled approvingly.

Severus inclined his head in her direction. “Wherever did you get that spell?”

“Daphne Greengrass wasn’t too happy with her fiancé breaking off their engagement,” Harry explained. “What’s more, there’s a high chance she got it from the missing Magick Moste Evile.”

“Miss Greengrass didn’t strike me as a Dark Arts enthusiast,” Severus said. “Then again, most successful ones don’t.”

“And yet she had the book on her coffee table, between the fashion magazines.” Harry turned to Pansy. “Was she and Nott close?”

“He didn’t mention her among people who’d been in his house recently, but they used to date in Hogwarts. I’d go as far as to say that Theo was madly in love.”

“Not Daphne?”

“With her, it was always hard to say.”

Harry took out a parchment and a quill and composed a quick missive to Astoria.

“We need to check Daphne’s wand,” he said. “We can use  _ Priori Incantatem _ and see if she used any other Dark curses in the last few days of her life. Then we might know why she needed the book in the first place.”

“Good idea,” said Pansy. “Even if she didn’t go through with whatever she took the book for, we still might get some interesting results.”

Severus nodded in agreement.

A cross-eyed, dopy-looking grey owl flew over to Harry as he sealed the letter. He had rescued it from an underground distillery during one of his first-ever cases, and it stayed in the office ever since. Technically, it was Fleur and Bill’s owl. At the time, he hadn’t been ready for a new owl so soon after Hedwig, not to mention Pansy’s screeching (Just look at it! Nobody would take us seriously!), so he gave it to the Weasleys, to little Victoire’s delight. To Pansy’s never-ending horror, Harry used it whenever he needed to send a letter.

“Moonshine! That’s a good boy!” Harry petted the owl and tied the parchment to his leg.

Moonshine nipped his ear affectionately and made a detour to Pansy.

“Bottomless pit,” she grumbled, feeding him an owl-treat she kept in her drawer just for him. “I don’t even like you, you know.”

Harry laughed at the blatant lie.

“This is the most ridiculous bird I’ve ever seen,” Severus said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as well.

Moonshine returned forty minutes later through the fireplace, ruffled and hooting indignantly. Harry took the reply, a scroll of creamy parchment sealed with the Greengrass crest. He broke it and scanned through the content.

“Someone stole Daphne’s wand. Astoria wants me to come to the Greengrass Manor right now .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a beta now, yay! Doing a bit of polishing on the first chapters as well, but don't worry, no changes to the plot.  
> Your feedback is always appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

Apparating to the coordinates Astoria left in her letter, Harry found himself in front of an iron-wrought gate in the middle of the rustic countryside. The gate opened without prompting, presenting an elegant Elizabethan manor with little decorative turrets and bay windows, ivy climbing up the stone walls. Harry walked down the gravel path crossing the thoroughly landscaped formal gardens that surrounded the manor. A stock-still house-elf in a crisp white toga was waiting for him at the front door. The elf opened it with a solemn expression on his wrinkled face before bowing low.

“Thank you,” Harry said uncomfortably, earning himself an inscrutable look from under bushy brows that quickly dissolved back into blankness.

This kind of subservience in the elves from wealthy households always set Harry’s teeth on edge. So many of them weren’t naturally like that. Dobby wasn’t, and neither was Kreacher. For all his talk about proper elfish place and propriety, he delighted in nagging Harry, finding new creative ways to insult his guests, and sabotaging any orders he didn’t agree with, not that Harry gave him any except for an occasional request. And since Severus had become a permanent fixture in Harry’s house, they were engaged in passive-aggressive warfare over the right to use the kitchen. It didn’t matter that Kreacher hardly ever cooked. Harry suspected they both kept at it simply because they were enjoying themselves too much.

The elf showed Harry to the drawing-room before vanishing with a quiet pop. Both elder Greengrasses, as well as Astoria and Malfoy, were already there, sitting in tense silence. As soon as Harry entered, the hosts assumed polite expressions, while Malfoy didn’t bother to clear the irritation from his face. For once, Harry suspected, it wasn’t directed at him.

“Mr. Potter, lovely to see you again. Although I do wish it would’ve happened under more ideal circumstances.” Cordelia Greengrass inclined her head. She was sitting on the paisley armchair with a perfect aristocratic posture, hands clasped over the black wool of her robe. Blonde and slender, she looked not a day older than forty-five. She had looked like that on the photo from the Kings Cross station, the one where she was sending Daphne to Hogwarts for the first time, too. With witches, you never knew for sure.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Lady Greengrass, Lord Greengrass.’

Like the Malfoys, the Greengrasses had a title bestowed on one of their ancestors by some muggle king before the Statute of Secrecy was enacted, and weren’t shy about using it among wizards despite renouncing everything else muggle. Harry remembered meeting them for the first time at a charity event he had been roped into attending. Mortimer, Cordelia’s husband, made a point of correcting Percy Weasley who had introduced him as ‘Mr.’ Technically, their title didn’t mean a thing in the wizarding world, which operated as something of a state within a state, but no one would deny that it sounded grand.

Mortimer Greengrass was standing behind his wife’s chair with his hand on her shoulder as if posing for a formal portrait. With his impressive moustache and receding hairline, he would fit right in with the hall of paintings in the Goldstein’s firm.

“I know Astoria had her reasons for hiring you, Mr. Potter,” he said. “Although I have to admit we had our doubts about the validity of those concerns until today. You must understand that we’ve been unwilling to disturb the memory of our sweet girl by stirring the past.” Cordelia covered his hand with hers and squeezed gently.

“If I understand correctly from Astoria’s letter, Daphne’s wand has been stolen,” said Harry. Upper-class Purebloods could prevaricate for hours if you didn’t cut to the chase.

“Indeed,” said Mortimer. “Somebody broke into our house without triggering any protective enchantments.”

“Was anything else taken?”

“Not as far as I can tell.” Mortimer shook his head. “But somebody has been through my study. Nothing is missing, but I know someone was there. I noticed it earlier today before Astoria came to us with your request, but I thought maybe it's my imagination playing tricks on me.”

“The wand was in your study?” asked Harry.

“No, it was in Daphne’s old room,” said Cordelia. “We’ve never expected something like that to happen.”

“Most troubling,” said Mortimer. “Our theory is a fan looking for a souvenir.”

Astoria made an abrupt motion as if to say something before reconsidering.

“Daphne was very popular,” said Cordelia, sending a chill look in Astoria’s direction. “And we were so proud of our girl. But there’s the underside to fame, as you must know better than most, Mr. Potter. She had all sorts of unhinged people craving for her attention.”

Yes, Harry had a lot of experience with those. And before he saw Goldstein’s memory earlier today, a stalker was one of his working theories as well. While still a possibility, something told him that the truth was much more complicated.

“When did you last see the wand?” he asked instead of sharing these suspicions with Daphne’s parents.

“Two weeks ago—” Mortimer started just as Cordelia said, “This morning.”

Everybody looked at her in question.

“I couldn’t sleep," she said with a tremor in her voice, the first display of real emotion. "So I went to her room at dawn.”

Mortimer patted her shoulder. Just as he opened his mouth to say something, there was a loud yell from upstairs.

“NO! DON’T—”

Harry was first on his feet, rushing up the marble staircase, the others short on his heels. At the top, they swung to the noise of a loud bang and a clatter of a window being thrown open.

A feeble man, hunched over with age, stood barefoot in the doorway of one of the rooms with an unfocused expression on his wrinkled face. Despite the early evening, he was wearing a house robe and had a nightcap on his head with wisps of white hair peeking out.

“What happened, Grandfather?” Mortimer asked, panting.

“He was there!”

“He?” Cordelia repeated.

“Or was it her?” His expression grew confused.

“Who was it, Grandpa?” Astoria stepped closer.

“It was—” The old man’s face crumpled. “I don’t remember.”

Harry pushed past him into the room and ran to the open window. On the ground, a figure in a black cloak was limping away.

“ _Stupefy_!” Harry shouted, but the figure dodged and darted to the side.

Throwing a cushioning charm, Harry jumped out of the window and looked around. A flash of black cloth disappeared around the corner. He followed, zigzagging past a small maze, a pond with a multi-tier rock waterfall, and two outbuildings. Just as he thought he had lost the perpetrator, there was loud neighing and screeching from the stables ahead. He dashed there, only to come to a halt when an angry hippogriff blocked his way forward. The creature reared up, his wings flapping.

Harry froze, clenching his wand. Never taking his eyes off it, he bowed, movements slow and deliberate. His fingers were white around the wood.

The hippogriff lowered its front legs and folded its wings, but didn’t move from its spot. A blast of a sloppy apparition fired in the distance, making Harry jerk, but the hippogriff shrieked in warning, unfolding its wings again.

Harry didn’t know how long he stood there, keeping his gaze locked with the beast, until finally there was a sound of steps behind him.

“Down, boy!” Mortimer shouted, hurrying over.

The hippogriff inclined its head slightly and turned away to the stables. Mortimer followed, herding it to the nearest stall.

“You’re lucky,” Cordelia said, coming over as well. “Ripclaw is rather vicious.”

“Somebody apparated out on the other side of the stables,” said Harry, turning to her. Astoria stood at her mother’s side, while Malfoy was keeping his distance, throwing nervous glances from across the road.

“Anti-Apparition ward extends to the stables, but not to the field they open to,” said Astoria.

“Whoever that was, they must know the grounds well,” Harry said. “Does anyone else live here, by the way?”

“Only our stableman, Barry Bletchley. He lives in one of the outbuildings over there. He’s 6’4, though. Rather noticeable.”

Harry thought back to the person he’d followed. Neither tall nor particularly short. Could be a man or a tall woman. With a shapeless cloak and a hood over the face, there was no way to tell.

“You held your own admirably, Mr. Potter.” Mortimer returned from the stable. “I respect the man who knows his way around a hippogriff.” He darted a glance at Malfoy, who jutted his chin and came closer.

They returned to the Manor where Harry, against his better judgement, took an offered glass of firewhiskey. Sometimes you had to make an allowance, and he felt that encounters with raging hippogriffs counted as one of those cases.

To his disappointment, the old man didn’t give any clues.

“YOU!” he shouted as soon as he spotted Harry, his unfocused eyes igniting with anger.

Astoria put a hand on his shoulder, and his face went placid.

“Lucy! I missed you so much, Lucy,” he babbled.

“Please excuse my grandfather,” Mortimer said stiffly. “He’s a very old man, and his mind is not as sharp as it once was.”

Astoria steered him to his bed with an encouraging smile. “Keep going, Grandpa. One foot after another. That’s right.”

“We’ve already asked him about the burglar, but—” Politely but insistently, Cordelia was ushering him out of the room, embarrassment clear on her face. “Well, you see how he is.”

Harry asked if there was anything valuable in the room, but Grandfather Greengrass wasn’t even allowed to keep his wand anymore. It seemed that he opened the door—which he was apparently wont to do even with locking charms in place—and spooked the thief.

Daphne’s bedroom was in the same wing, two doors down. It was a stark contrast to Daphne’s fashionable and cold flat or the wealthy elegance of the rest of the manor. The walls were covered with The Weird Sisters posters, prominently featuring the lead singer, Myron Wagtail, bare-chested and in tight dragonhide trousers. Teddy bears in different robes and porcelain dolls inhabited the shelves, together with Daphne’s school textbooks and half-dozen bright volumes of a book series called _The Princess of Ascania_.

“Please excuse me. I just cannot see my daughter’s bedroom right now,” Cordelia said before leaving the room.

“I’ve learned some new information earlier today. Shortly before her death, your daughter might’ve been in possession of a dangerous book that had recently been stolen,” Harry said carefully.

Browsing through a pile of summer holiday letters from Daphne’s Slytherin friends, he watched Malfoy and Astoria from the corner of his eyes. They didn’t look overly surprised. Or unduly anxious.

“What are you implying?” Mortimer’s voice rose up indignantly. “My daughter would never be involved in anything illegal!”

Malfoy rolled his eyes behind Mortimer’s back.

Further questioning in this direction would only bring hostility, that much was obvious. Since it was unlikely that Mortimer Greengrass knew anything about his daughter’s forays into the Dark Arts, Harry changed the topic.

“Did you question your house-elf if he had seen anything?”

“My house-elf?” Mortimer sounded genuinely confused.

“Don’t underestimate what little buggers can see and do,” Malfoy said with a sour face.

“Soppy!” Mortimer called the elf with a click of his fingers. The familiar elf in the toga appeared. “Have you seen any strangers in the house today?”

“No, Master,” Soppy bowed.

“Soppy, have you seen the person who got into the house and then ran away?” asked Harry. From his experience with Kreacher, he knew that wording was everything. And he suspected that the person who’d stolen Daphne’s wand was not a stranger to the family living here.

The elf regarded him for a moment with the same inscrutable expression. His ears twitched. Finally, he shook his head. “No, I haven’t, Harry Potter, sir.”

“See?” Mortimer huffed, sending Soppy away. “Indispensable for housekeeping, but otherwise useless creatures.”

When they returned downstairs, Cordelia stood up from her chair.

“We are grateful for your help, Mr. Potter, and hope you’ll find the detestable individual disturbing our daughter’s memory,” she said.

“Today’s events are most troubling.” Mortimer nodded gravely.

“But you must understand that our family values privacy,” Cordelia continued. “We’re also counting on your discretion.”

“Of course, Lady Greengrass.”

Discretion was a popular word among the members of this family. Perhaps the reason they had never supported Voldemort in the war was him being too indiscreet.

He left the Manor, accompanied by Astoria and Malfoy.

“What’s that book you were talking about earlier?” Malfoy asked.

“Unabridged edition Magick Moste Evile, stolen from Theodore Nott’s house.” He watched Malfoy for any signs of recognition, but there were none. Only honest surprise. “With Voldemort’s notes in it,” he added.

Both Malfoy and Astoria winced at the name. Malfoy rubbed his left forearm reflexively.

“Well.” Astoria shook her head. “Not remotely something I’d expect from my sister, I must admit.”

“I didn’t know Theo had something like that in his house. Of course, I haven’t spoken to him in years,” Malfoy said with a trace of guilt on his pointy face. “He loved Daphne back in Hogwarts, though. In love with her since our third year, had a ring since our fifth. He was heartbroken when she ditched him after graduation.”

“Being a wife of a disgraced Death Eater’s son would interfere with her plans for the future: living a life of the main socialite of the Wizarding Britain and having her face in every single Witch Weekly issue.” As always, Astoria’s politeness and soft-spokenness disappeared when she talked about her sister. “She did love Theodore, though. Certainly more than she’d ever loved Anthony.”

“Goldstein is around your height, isn’t he?” Malfoy brightened suddenly. “And the same height as whoever you were following down there. Personally, I’ve never trusted a short man.”

Harry kept his face blank through sheer willpower. Neither he nor Goldstein were that short: since Harry’s growth spurt before their sixth year, Malfoy never had more than two inches over him, and now it was closer to one. Staying professional on this case was going to take a lot, Harry thought, putting his hands into the pockets of his robe lest the urge to flip Malfoy off became overwhelming.

* * *

Severus was nowhere to be seen when Harry returned home, so he floo-called to Spinner’s End.

“Severus? Are you there?”

“In the kitchen!” came the distant reply.

Tumbling out the fireplace, Harry shook off the soot and looked around. The house had a general air of disuse and was a bit ramshackle, but on the rare occasions he visited, he always found that it certainly had character. In the golden light of the summer evening, the walls lined with bookshelves and the worn, well-loved tartan chesterfield sofa, looked cosy and lived-in. Pansy would call him nuts, but Harry would take this room over the grandeur of the manor he had just left any day.

Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was way past its glory days, if it had ever had those in the first place. Severus stood with his back to Harry, rummaging through an old and mostly empty fridge. The light inside flickered occasionally.

“Hi there. Are you busy?” Harry asked.

“No, not at all. I was just making dinner.” Severus grabbed the closest thing in his reach—a single egg left from whatever better times the fridge had seen—and scowled at it as if it was a Gryffindor melting his favourite cauldron.

“Want to grab some takeaway? Indian, maybe?” Harry asked carefully. Severus was in one of _those_ moods.

“Do you honestly believe this godforsaken shithole has any of those? There’s a Tesco fifteen minutes away from here and a dirty pub for those who wish to drink their lives away.” He closed the fridge door with force. The glossy white surface bore a visible indent near the handle. “Idiotic contraption.”

“We could go home—to Grimmauld, I mean—and order from that new place on the corner you liked,” Harry offered. “Or I can apparate there and get us something,” he added hastily.

“I’ve been living at your house for the past two weeks as it is. I realise that this place is no match for the opulence of the Greengrass Manor, but it’s the only one I have.” Severus’s scowl deepened.

Harry gently took the egg from Severus’s hand before it exploded from the way he kept staring at it—and not at Harry.

“I like it here.”

Severus gave him a disbelieving look.

“I wouldn’t want to live somewhere like the Greengrass Manor. It’s beautiful, but… oppressive, I guess.” Harry waved his hand in a vague gesture. “No, oppressive isn’t the right word. It’s not gloomy or bleak or anything. Quite the opposite, actually. But places like that come with certain expectations, if you get what I’m saying. A boy from a cupboard under the stairs could never feel at home there.” Harry gave a little self-deprecating laugh.

“Oh woe is you.” The words were derisive but lacked the bite. “Look around.” Severus made a sweeping gesture. The cupboards around him—indeed rather shabby—rattled.

“Now who’s throwing a pity party?” Harry stifled a smile at the dramatic timing of Severus’s magic, putting a hand on his arm instead. He remembered the hippogriff from earlier today. Sometimes, Severus reminded him of one: proud, easily angered, easily spooked. “You’re making good money, certainly enough for a renovation. And we are wizards, for Merlin’s sake. I’m not good at Transfiguration, but Pansy would be only too happy to create a Malfoy Manor in miniature in an afternoon. Permanent Transfiguration, too. You know she’s that good.”

“I don’t need a Malfoy Manor here. One was enough for my lifetime,” Severus huffed.

“Or we can buy something. A house. A flat.” Harry dared to voice another option, the one he had been thinking about for some time now. “If you are that opposed to Grimmauld Place or it brings back bad memories—”

“It doesn’t,” Severus interrupted sharply. “Unless you’re planning to reinstate the house-elf heads and return the mutt’s—the old shrieking harpy back in the hallway.”

Severus’s caution about badmouthing Sirius too much even in this mood made Harry’s chest expand with warmth. Their very first big fight had been about that. Harry understood Severus’s feelings towards his godfather, but that didn’t mean he appreciated Sirius’s name constantly brought up in random conversations in a derisive manner.

“Don’t worry, I’m not.”

“Buying another property doesn’t make sense. I’m at Hogwarts most of the year. And since you expressed your willingness—” Severus stopped short with a jerk of his head. Outside the window, the sun disappeared beyond the horizon almost completely, leaving the kitchen and Severus’s face in long deepening shadows.

“I’ll continue living in your quarters, if you’ll still have me, of course.” They had discussed this at the end of the school year in June. By then they had for all intents and purposes been living together in the dungeons, even before Harry took McGonagall up on her offer for the NEWT classes next year. But evidently, Severus still felt unsure. “Until McGonagall officially gives me the boot, and then I’ll be coming and going through secret passages under my Cloak.”

Severus snorted. “Minerva would never do that. You are her favourite. Giving you constant talks on how you can do better, that’s more likely.” As if realising that he’d said too much, he scowled and attempted to cross his arms on his chest.

Harry didn’t let him do it, pulling Severus towards himself and kissing him lightly on the lips. Severus willingly stepped closer, which Harry considered another good sign.

“I’m doing perfectly well for myself as it is,” Harry said, putting a curtain of Severus’s hair behind his ear so he wouldn’t attempt to obscure his face with it. Besides, Harry liked carding his fingers through the black locks, almost clean this evening. Since the time they got together, Severus made an effort to wash it more often, although it still got greasy very quickly from the cauldron fumes. Harry found that he didn’t care about that too much. The hair was simply a natural part of Severus, just like his long, graceful fingers or his temper.

“Humph.”

“And the only speech Minerva gave me was a warning not to break your heart.”

“What?! You can’t be serious.” Severus looked at Harry with frank astonishment he quickly hid behind another scowl.

“Believe me, I am. She’s concerned about you, you know. And I think she’s still feeling a bit guilty about doubting you during the war but doesn’t know how to approach the topic. That’s why she’s acting all reserved. She does care about you.”

“Psychologist Potter, always looking for the best in people.”

“Actually, I’m not. Not with my job.”

Despite how the wizarding world viewed him, especially when the pendulum of the Prophet articles veered into the adoration and away from the ‘unstable attention-seeker’, Harry had learned to be a cynic when it came to certain people rather early in his life. He had to if he wanted to survive the Dursleys. It was easy, however, to come across as a glass-half-full person next to Severus who firmly believed—to a certain extent justifiably—that the world was out to get him.

Severus yanked him suddenly, pinning him to the kitchen worktop. “You _can_ do much better than a cantankerous old man. But until you realise that, you are mine,” he muttered hotly into Harry’s hair; low, almost unintelligible sound.

He captured Harry’s lips into a fierce, possessive kiss full of teeth and tongue.

“Yes,” Harry half-moaned when they separated briefly, both slightly breathless, before Severus’s lips found his throat. Harry’s hand was on his way to Severus’s trousers when his stomach gave a loud rumble.

Severus stepped back, earning himself a whine of protest from Harry.

“You haven’t even had any lunch, have you?”

“I’ve had a butterbeer with Lee at the radio station. And a Peppermint Toad,” he added lamely.

“A Peppermint Toad.” Severus raised an eyebrow.

“You’re the one to talk.” Dragging Severus to lunch in between lessons was a hard task. Dragging him to lunch when he was in his lab was impossible. “I can ask Kreacher to make us something quick.”

“You will do no such thing. I’m not letting that slanderous creature anywhere near our food.”

Severus stepped closer again, and Harry’s eyes fluttered closed. Instead of another kiss he was expecting, however, Harry got an unpleasant sensation of being squeezed through a tube. When he blinked, opening his eyes, they were standing in the middle of Grimmauld Place kitchen.

“There are some chicken breasts left from Friday; those will do,” Severus said before turning his head to the door. “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT COMING HERE, YOU FLAP-EARED BANDERSNATCH!” he shouted. There was some low muttering in response.

Harry caught his hand. “Stay here.”

“I believe I’ve come to do just that.”

“I mean until September.”

“Until mid-August,” Severus conceded. “Teachers have to return to the castle before the students, you know,” he explained before Harry could protest.

“Until mid-August, then,” Harry agreed with a wide smile. “By the way, did you know that you’re a fashion icon now?”

“What?” Severus furrowed his brow.

Harry’s smile turned into a mischievous grin as he produced the CD he’d brought from the wireless station.


	7. Chapter 7

In the days that followed, Harry tried to make sense of the turbulent start of the week. Each new piece of the puzzle brought more questions than it solved. Apparently, Goldstein did spend the six days leading to Daphne’s death and two days after that in a private facility in the Swiss Alps, not at all in a hurry to return to England. The witch at the clinic’s international floo was polite but cagey with information. She did confirm that Goldstein had been there, but not before contacting him first. If only St. Mungo’s operated that way, Harry griped. Every minute detail of his diagnosis never failed to appear in the Prophet every damn time he landed there. Often together with embarrassing photos.

Going through Daphne’s Gringotts statements yielded some more unexpected results. There was an enormous transaction on her account on June 2, the day Lee had mentioned meeting her at the bank. Daphne Greengrass transferred 100,000 galleons—roughly the half of all available money on her account—to vault 387401 in the name of one A. S. Greengrass.

Despite his better judgement, Harry sent Pansy to Gringotts. The goblins still held a grudge against him for the breakout, so he didn’t even attempt to approach them himself. Yet Pansy was not successful either: the account manager remained tight-lipped. Not that Harry expected anything else. Goblins were even more particular about client confidentiality than private Swiss clinics.

Convinced that Astoria was not what she seemed, Pansy was bursting with excitement. His partner was now coming up with increasingly convoluted theories of her double games. Astoria was somehow involved in her sister’s death, she was sure. Nothing, even the fact that Astoria’s middle name turned out to be Diana, could dissuade her now.

“Potter, how can you be so blind?” Pansy threw her hand in the air. “She’d fooled everyone, everyone but me! Oh, I’ve always seen her for the treacherous cow that she is! And whose fault is it that we’ve all missed it?”

“Malfoy’s?” Harry guessed. If something wasn’t Astoria’s fault, it was usually Malfoy’s. Sometimes, talking to Pansy was like talking to thirteen-year-old Ron, even though both would be horrified at the comparison.

“What does Draco have to do with this? He’s been fooled just like the rest of the world.” Oh, so this was not one of those times. “The fault is yours, obviously!”

“Mine?!”

“You were the one who made me take down the surveillance from their flat half a year ago.” Pansy crossed her arms over her chest.

Harry winced, remembering that particular disaster and resulting Howler from Malfoy. “You know I couldn’t let that go on. Did you have it for long?” He never asked for details because he was afraid of what he would learn.

“Only for a week.” Pansy pouted. “Never got a chance to see anything incriminating—and you have only your _integrity_ to blame.” She pronounced _integrity_ with an air of a person being handed a horned slug. “She might be well on her way to becoming the next Dark Lady, and no one is the wiser!”

While Pansy’s accusations grew more and more ridiculous, Harry could not deny that keeping a closer eye on Astoria might be a good idea. There had been some bad blood between the sisters that even death couldn’t bridge. Still. Why would Astoria contact him for an investigation if she was somehow responsible for whatever had been happening to Daphne? Nobody had thought there was anything suspicious about her sister’s death. The public jumped to conclusions about a drug overdose—a fact that should have pleased Astoria greatly if she was involved—and even those rumours had been dying down after a month in the papers.

Astoria herself seemed to be disturbed to learn of the transaction. She couldn’t fathom the reason for such an astronomical amount, and insisted there were no Greengrasses with such initials anywhere.

Pansy vowed to look into the matter most thoroughly. There were some problems with that, though. Wizards didn’t have an easy-to-check paper trail Muggles had, so you could never know for sure what—or whose—skeletons families were hiding in their closets.

There were all sorts of Pureblood genealogy claptrap: Nature’s Nobility, tapestries like the one at Grimmauld Place, all of them heavily curated and edited. The best bet was Hogwarts Book of Admittance, although not everybody in the wizarding world attended it. The DMLE and Wizengamot had their own records, as did St. Mungo’s, but those were limited and unreliable. And not available to the general public, although getting them was laughably easy. Shacklebolt hinted at introducing Wiz-IDs at the beginning of his term and was almost ousted from the office. Ostensibly, the Muggle-Born Registration Committee was too fresh in everybody’s memories. In reality, wizards loved their privacy too much.

And then, there was the matter of Magick Moste Evile.

Wednesday found Harry in the company of Theodore Nott, Exotic Symbol Analyst at the Ministry and a former lover of Daphne Greengrass. Hunched in the seat in front of Harry’s desk, he stared unseeingly out of the window. The plain grey robes he wore emphasized the deep shadows under his eyes and unhealthy pallor of his skin.

“Why didn’t you tell us that Daphne Greengrass had been to your house?” asked Harry. The list of other visitors consisted of Nott’s elderly Great Aunt and her house-elf who came once a week to clean and cook. It was unlikely that Nott had simply forgotten.

“Daphne didn’t need her name involved with any of this. People would question why she was at my house—and come to correct conclusions. Not to mention the Dark Arts shit. She didn’t need any of that," he repeated, eyes never leaving the window. “And she never once went anywhere near the library when she visited. You’ve seen the place. Those books weren’t something she was ever remotely interested in. She would never hurt a fly.”

It seemed that Nott didn’t know Daphne Greengrass nearly as well as he thought. Or simply wanted to see the best in her. Love did that to people. Harry held back from telling him about Goldstein breaking up with Daphne, and had asked Pansy not to say anything either. Sometimes, you were better off without wondering about useless could-have-beens.

“How often did you see her?” Harry asked instead.

“Once or twice a month. More often than her fiancé, that’s for sure,” Nott added vindictively. “But she hadn’t been over for quite a while. The last two times, I’ve come over to hers.”

“Did she discuss anything out of usual with you?”

Nott’s ears went red. “We didn’t discuss much of anything. She preferred to keep her life separate.” His face crumpled and he let out a choked breath, almost a sob. “I still cannot believe she’s dead! I didn’t even get to go to the funeral!”

Pansy, who had been sitting in silence at her desk all that time, appeared at his side right away. “Let’s go, Theo, darling. Potter here likes to play a seasoned Auror conducting an interrogation. No concern about other people’s feelings.” She threw an apologetic glance in Harry’s direction. “What you need right now is a glass or three of something stiff in the Leaky. And that’s where we’re going right now.” Her voice bore no room for argument as she dragged the unresponsive Nott to the floo.

Harry let Pansy play out her part of a ‘good Auror’ and comfort Nott whom she knew much better after many years together in Slytherin. Hopefully, she’d suss more information out of him that way. He glanced at a clock on the wall: almost midday. Severus was not due to emerge from the lab for at least an hour. The consequences Harry had been promised should he attempt to disturb him were dire. It was also way too early for a long-overdue visit to Romilda Vane, a nocturnal creature. Not having anything better to do, he grabbed his robe and apparated to Daphne’s house.

The street was unchanged. Pigeons were puffing out their chests and eying Harry with suspicion. Sunlight shimmered in the air, indicating the low-level Muggle-Repelling Charms around the area for those who knew what to look for. Not hiding the building completely, but enough to avert the attention of idle passers-by.

Before going to Daphne’s flat, Harry stopped by the neighbour’s door. Five minutes of knocking later, he accepted that nobody was home and headed upstairs. Daphne’s door, however, opened for him readily: Astoria must have added him to the wards. Good. Now he didn’t have to explain his breaking and entering to her. While a magical portrait in the flat turned out to be an unexpected boon, it was also very hard to sneak in without it noticing everything.

And speaking of noticing, Harry had some questions for Benedict.

“Good morning, Harry.” Benedict appeared to be another night owl, if magical paintings even needed their nightly sleep. “Didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

“Hullo, Benedict. Everything’s quiet here?”

“Not a soul.” The portrait looked Harry over with a critical eye. “Don’t take me wrong, my friend—I’ve got only your best interests at heart. But... have you considered a new barber?”

Harry reached to smooth his hair before he could stop himself. “It’s a lost cause.”

“Because if not for the colour, your hair would be a perfect recreation of a haystack I found myself in one notable summer of 1768. I do have fond memories of the highly enjoyable hours I spent there.” Benedict winked with a wry smile that put dimples on his cheeks. “I wonder if Brown’s Barbershop is still operating in Diagon Alley. In my time, they worked magic, and not just the regular kind.”

“I’ll look into it.” Like hell he would. “Say, Benedict. Are you sure you mentioned everybody who’d been here in the last months?”

The grey eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I think you already have someone in mind if you’re asking the question.”

“Do I?”

“Theodore Nott.” Benedict studied his perfectly manicured nails.

“You didn’t mention him the first time.” Harry prodded, sitting down at the sofa. Its snowy whiteness kept him on edge, with his back straight.

“You see, Astoria is a wonderful girl.” The portrait sighed. “But a bit of a prude. And unfairly judgemental when to comes to her sister, even while she’s willing to give everyone else a chance.” His eyes shone at the juicy piece of gossip, much like Pansy’s. He didn’t seem to have nearly as many qualms about discussing Astoria’s faults as her sister’s. “Are you aware of the scandalous nature of her fiancé’s youth?”

That was one way to put it. “I’ve been present during the events,” Harry said dryly.

“Yes, I guess you were.” Benedict made a careless gesture with his wrist. “That explains why Draco has such a dislike for you.”

“We’ve disliked each other since our first ride at the Hogwarts Express.”

“Oh, but a couple of years outside Hogwarts dormitories, and most schoolyard grudges are water under the bridge. House rivalries, first heartbreaks. Silly nonsense.” Benedict waved his hand again. “And those that aren’t, usually run much deeper than the pique you seem to raise in my future thrice-great grandson-in-law.” He tilted his head, studying Harry. “But you have witnessed him at his lowest—while coming out of those situations as a lauded hero yourself, no matter how deservedly—and that is not something many can forgive.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Harry said. This was Hermione’s perspective on Malfoy as well.

“Whatever else Draco is, at least he is never boring.”

“It’s hard to disagree with that.”

“With Daphne’s own fiancé being a hopeless dullard who was never there, is it any wonder she turned to her old flame? But Astoria would never understand.” Benedict shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, I myself never approved of that particular relationship.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The key to a successful engagement and marriage is to keep your liaisons brief, fun and casual,” he said with a didactic air, clearly speaking from a vast personal experience. “And that affair was none of those things. The boy was too much in love with Daphne. Arrangements of that sort can only ever end in tears.”

Harry studied the portrait. It was easy to see this bon-vivant with youthful, well-groomed looks as feather-headed and shallow, but the man behind the paint and magic was no Lockhart. That white curly wig and an artfully tied cravat hid a keen mind, sharp wit and an ocean of dubious life wisdom.

“Do you miss it?” he blurted. “Being alive, I mean. Sorry if it’s a rude question.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. It was probably yet another unspoken rule of the wizarding world he didn’t know about. At Hogwarts, magical paintings were a natural part of the near-sentient castle, as the ghosts or Peeves. After years of seeing them every day, Harry never thought to question their nature. They were simply there, always had been and always would be. And outside of Hogwarts... He couldn’t very well question old Walburga, could he? Or even Phineas Nigellus in the library. Harry consulted him on occasion, but the man was just as likely to mess with him as to give a straightforward answer.

A shadow of longing and sadness flickered across Benedict’s face, chased away by a burst of harmonious laughter. “Modern world wouldn’t know what to do with me, nor I with it.” His expression grew more serious. “Don’t be fooled, magical portraits are but traces of personalities of the wizards and witches we once used to be. We don’t have the same desires or feelings. Only memories of having them.”

Still, it had to be tedious, sitting there in confines of the frame all day, with no one to even talk to. Harry would get antsy halfway through a slow day in the office. Imagine spending years, decades, centuries in one place, with nowhere to go.

“We sleep most of the time when nobody is around,” Benedict said, as if sensing the direction of Harry’s thoughts. “It can be, however, quite a lonely existence, especially for a social person such as myself. I do wish they won’t leave me here for long. As I mentioned already, I have another portrait back in the Manor, but nobody takes a seven-year-old seriously, even my own son who’s hanging next to me. Especially my own son!” he dismayed.

“I hope we’ll figure out what happened to Daphne soon, so you won’t have to keep watch here anymore.”

Benedict gave a solemn nod.

“There’s also another matter,” Harry said cautiously. “Goldstein shared a memory of the break-up with me. I noticed Daphne had a book here that might be the one I’m looking for as a part of another case. A very dangerous book.”

Benedict’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Magick Moste Evile, if I caught the title right from over here.”

“Yes!” Harry leaned forward. “That’s the one.”

“I perused a copy once back in my Hogwarts days. You know how it is; it is the second book everybody looks at when they sneak into the Restricted Section for the first time.”

“Second?”

“After Carnal Rites, naturally. Don’t they have sex magic books there anymore?”

Harry’s Hogwarts experience was looking to be woefully incomplete.

“Gruesome curses that force intestines out of the ears never held any interest for me. I always preferred to slay my foes with my words.” Benedict pointed at the parchment on his desk. “An article by me could make or ruin a man.”

“There’s power in them.” Rita Skeeter’s poison quill would be the first proof of that.

“There was one French Ambassador, Marques Delacour, who refused to see that it was time for us to part our ways. A dashing man, but rather unimpressive with his wand.”

Harry smothered a laugh. Benedict’s voice left little doubt as to which wand he meant.

“So he conspired with Calpurnia Black, another former lover of mine who felt spurned, to bring ignominy upon my name,” he continued. “Fortunately, I learned about the plot in time. One biting feuilleton later, and Calpurnia’s husband—then Chief Warlock—is sending hapless Jean-Baptiste back to France in disgrace. At that time, Muggles there decided they didn’t want aristocracy anymore, and the wizards followed suit. The Marques regretted making an enemy out of me very fast. And as for Calpurnia... May I give you a piece of advice, my dear friend?”

“Yes?” Harry asked, although Benedict hardly needed his contribution to the conversation to carry on with it.

“ _Never_ fall for a Black. You might be tempted: their beauty is fabled, as is their passion. But scrape anyone from that family a little, and you’ll find pure vindictiveness to the point of madness inside.” Benedict paused dramatically before continuing. “So Calpurnia’s husband, in his jealousy of the Marques, poisoned his wife, but not before she—born half-Black as well—cursed him into insanity for the rest of his days.”

Anger issues in Sirius’s family ran deep.

“I must admit it was not what I anticipated when orchestrating my vengeance,” he added thoughtfully. “But it goes to show that you should never underestimate the power of the written word.”

“And I here thought _I_ learned that lesson the hard way.” Harry snorted. “Your memoir must be a blast, if you have one.”

“I wrote a play about these particular events, with slight changes to the names and under an alias. Society was in an uproar; Wizengamot banned it the day after release. Which meant the play was inevitably brought on stage that very year, and drew full house for six seasons straight.”

“You are something else, Benedict.” Harry laughed.

“Why, thank you, Harry.”

Standing up, Harry remembered the actual reason he came here. “Wait, the book. What happened to the book Daphne had?”

“Oh, the book. Later after Anthony’s visit, she put it in her purse before leaving. I can only assume she returned the book to whomever she got it from.”

“How long did she have it?”

“I saw it only that one time. She could have had it for longer, though. She rarely brought her books here from the study,” said Benedict.

“Was she looking for something in particular?”

“No, don’t think so.” He shook his head. “Just browsing. I thought maybe she was seeking inspiration from all those gory pictures. Darkness is always in vogue, as long as it’s suitably non-threatening. That day she was particularly absent-minded and short with me, so I didn’t ask.” A light frown marred his brow.

“Thank you, Benedict.”

“It’s the least I can do. You are always welcome to come here and chat.”

Harry left the flat, even more confused than after his first visit, his mind whirling.

Nott wasn’t sure when exactly the book was stolen, since he himself rarely ventured to that part of the library. The house-elf who used to dust it once a week told Nott about the book’s disappearance, two days after it had already been here in Daphne’s flat. Whenever she took it, she couldn’t have had it for too long.

And where did she take it? Was she afraid Goldstein would call the Aurors? Benedict might have thought nothing of it, but that wasn’t the comparatively toothless Hogwarts edition. That particular tome would bring the attention of both the DMLE and Unspeakables faster than he could say ‘adultery’. But no, Daphne didn’t cast the spell in anger she might later regret. In Goldstein’s memory, she never once lost her cool. She must have expected him to be too embarrassed to tell anyone. Did she give the book to someone else? And how did the mysterious A.S. Greengrass whom she had transferred so much money to just a week before fit into the picture?

There were just too many questions, and Harry had none of the answers.


	8. Chapter 8

Pansy didn’t return to the office the previous evening. Instead, as she tipsily informed Harry over the communication mirror, she dragged ‘poor Theo’ to Brighton to ‘take his mind off things.’ Although Harry warned her not to drink and apparate, especially on such a long distance, he suspected it fell on deaf ears. He didn’t know about Nott, but Pansy was an adventurous drunk. The better half of her altercations with Astoria and Malfoy were spurred by an idea she got two thirds into a bottle of her favourite Chianti.

Merlin, those two. Harry’s stomach churned. Hopefully, Pansy would have enough presence of mind not to go baiting Astoria. He should have checked on her afterwards, but Severus had been in a particularly good mood and made him forget all about it.

Coming to the office first thing in the morning, he wondered if it had been a mistake. They hadn’t managed to exchange a word yet, but Harry’s alarm bells were ringing. She did show up in time for an appointment with a new client, though.

An ageing witch with grey hair in a bun was slumped at Pansy’s desk, wringing her hands. His partner was listening with an expression on her face that most would call grave, but was, Harry knew, simply hung-over.

“I don’t want to believe the worst about my Arsie—” Harry’s respect for Pansy went up a notch when she didn’t move a muscle at the nickname. “—but all the evidence is lining up!” The woman sobbed, putting her plump hand over her eyes.

“Tell us more about the situation, Mrs. Jigger,” Pansy said, waving her wand. A steaming teapot flew over and poured some amber liquid into two cups in front of them.

At his own desk, Harry surreptitiously took out morning papers. This seemed to be one of her cases, and she would let him know if his input was needed.

Mrs. Jigger took a hitching breath. “I suspect—I suspect my husband has been unfaithful.”

Pansy gave a vague but sympathetic sound. “Why do you think so?”

“For years now, he’s been away every other Saturday. Supposedly for a pint with his old friend Damocles, Damocles Belby. You must have heard of him, he’s a Potioneer.” She looked over at Harry expectantly.

Harry nodded, stifling a sigh. He did know the inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion, but not through Severus, as Mrs. Jigger was implying here.

“Then you know that Damocles has recently suffered a heart attack,” the woman continued, seemingly satisfied. “Arsie went to visit him on Saturday in the hospital, or so he said. I wanted to go with him, but he didn’t let me. They would talk potion, and I’d be bored out of my mind, he said. Only—” Her voice wavered.

“What is it?” Pansy prodded gently.

“Only I met Mrs. Belby on Tuesday. And what an unpleasant conversation it was,” Mrs. Jigger, trying to hide her embarrassment, without much success. “Not only was Arsenius never in the hospital, but he and her husband had a falling out two years ago and haven’t said a word to each other ever since! And it goes back before that. She said they couldn’t’ve met on Saturday mornings, because Damocles usually spends them with their grandchildren!” She broke into sobs again.

“There, there.” Pansy conjured a tissue and handed it to the woman, stifling a wince at the volume.

“And now that I think of it, he would sometimes be away for a night too. Checking on suppliers of sensitive ingredients that have to be collected only on the new moon, or some such tale,” Mrs. Jigger said with a loud sniff.

“Ingredients?”

“My husband is the owner of Slug and Jiggers on Diagon. Best apothecary in Britain,” she explained with pride, her distress forgotten for a moment.

Quality of Slug and Jiggers’ ingredients was actually one of Severus’s favourite rants, honed to be as insulting as possible to the apothecary as a whole and Arsenius Jigger in particular.

She gulped her tea loudly before the tears returned twofold. “So many of his excuses sound thin now.”

“This might be a simple case of a harmless hobby he’s too embarrassed to tell you about.” Pansy raised her own cup without taking a sip. “But it’s always better to know for sure.”

“Fifty-four years together! I cannot believe my Arsie would stray. But what else am I supposed to think?”

“Of course, that is only natural,” Pansy said, her tone compassionate. Harry mentally gave her an award for best acting. “We will look into your husband’s whereabouts, so you can know for sure where he spends his time away.”

“Thank you, dear girl. Carol Mulpepper couldn’t praise you both enough when you found their daughter. And I’ve heard it was you who caught Madam Primpernelle with that Italian prince half her age,” Mrs. Jigger gave Pansy a look of burning curiosity.

“We don’t disclose information about our clients,” Pansy said, smug.

She did catch the very much married owner of another Diagon establishment, Madam Primpernelle’s Beauty Salon, in a compromising position with one Jean-Jacques Grimaldi, a heartthrob rumoured to be the secret magical son of the Duke of Monaco. Pansy had gotten a double paycheck for that case: one from Mr. Smethwyck, the husband, and another from Madam Primpernelle herself—Clara Smethwyck in everyday life—who wanted to know more about her lover’s background. The latter wasn’t a very hard task at all. Pansy recognised Kevin Entwhistle, a Ravenclaw from their year, in dashing Jean-Jacques right away.

As she started to discuss the conditions of the contract with Mrs. Jigger, who haggled mercilessly despite her distraught state, Harry tuned the conversation out. He scanned the Prophet, and leafed through the Guardian he’d gotten on his way to work. Keeping up with newspapers was a chore, but a chore that often led to promising developments.

Like today, for example. The Guardian’s front page featured a photo of a panicked crowd running away from the water at the beach. ‘Deadly shark spotted in Brighton,’ the headline read in big bold letters.

After Mrs. Jigger finally left, leaving a photo of her husband behind, Pansy finally let her polite professional expression drop with a groan. She jerked one of the cabinets open and produced a non-descript opaque vial, drowning it immediately.

“The old biddy just had to come early on the one day I’m out of the Hangover Cure,” she said. A moment later, pure relief blossomed on her face. “Oh, but the Professor is good. The stuff our treacherous ‘Arsie’ sells on Diagon is nowhere near this quality.” She let herself snicker.

“I’ll tell Severus you appreciate his craft. This was my emergency stash, by the way. That potion could have been anything.”

“Who do you take me for? I always check everything that appears on these shelves.”

Well, Harry didn’t expect anything less.

“What do you think about Mr. Jigger?” Pansy asked. “A bit late for the first midlife crisis, but early for the second.” The wizards and witches lived longer, so they had several of those in life, at least if Pansy quoting the Witch Weekly was to be believed. “ So—” She made a dramatic gesture with her hand. “A geriatric mistress or a secret basement where he guiltily fiddles with muggle stuff?”

Harry snatched the photo from her desk and stared at it for a moment. Arsenius Jigger was a goateed man with harsh lines creasing his forehead as he glared at the word from under his bushy eyebrows.

Snorting, he gave it back. “I know exactly where he spends his Saturday mornings, and it’s not his mistress. Well, unless you count the Grand Mistress, maybe something _is_ going on there.”

“Huh?” Pansy looked at him blankly.

“This is Brother Asphodel from the bloody Lodge of Darkness. It’s his whining about Muggle-borns and young people I had to listen to for forty minutes straight. A proud long-term member, if Severus to be believed.”

“Well, that was easy. Now you just need to take some photos the next time the Lodge gathers. They wanted to do that full moon ritual, right?”

“I don’t want to, er, blow my cover with them,” Harry said tentatively.

“Didn’t you say you’re never setting your foot there again?” Pansy asked.

“We can show her my old memories, then. Surely, she’ll recognise her husband, if even I did.”

“No, no,” She started pacing in agitation. “We need to prove that we’ve worked like house-elves to crack her case, or it’ll turn into haggling nightmare. I know the type. You’ve seen how she was today.”

“Well, maybe—”

Her expression turned knowing. “It’s because the next gathering is on the thirty-first, isn’t it? You just don’t want to go there on your birthday!”

Harry looked a bit sheepish.

“We’ll think of something.” Pansy waved her hand magnanimously.

There was a sudden cracking sound of the floo flaring to life, making him jump. Green flames rose up, and the fireplace spitted out an owl with a scroll with a Ministry seal tied to its leg. It swooped over to Pansy, hooting with displeasure.

Splotches of pink bloomed on Pansy’s cheeks as she untied the parchment and let the owl out of the window.

“What is it?” Harry asked, watching as she broke the seal, scanned it and hid in her drawer quickly.

“Nothing important. Just a small misunderstanding with the paperwork we filed last month. I’ll clear it up later today.”

“Paperwork, huh?” Harry narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure it’s about paperwork and not you scaring the life out of tourists with your animagus form?”

“How do you—?” The flush deepened. “I mean, It’s the stupidest accusation I’ve ever heard, Potter!”

“Really?” In imitation of Severus tearing Ron and him a new one after the Ford Anglia incident in their second year, Harry produced the Guardian with flair. “You. Were. Seen.”

Lunging, Pansy snatched the paper before he could do the dramatic reading part.

“Shit. It’s McGonagall’s fault.”

“Was she there at the beach?” Harry imagined the Headmistress in her floor-length robes and a pointy hat sitting primly under a colourful umbrella.

“Don’t be silly. It’s her fault because she’s made me register.”

“So. Do I have to take you off the hook with the Aurors again?”

“No.” Pansy bit her lip and glanced away in a rare expression of shame, however fleeting. “It was Mr. Weasley. The Ministry thinks I was Muggle-baiting.”

Harry burst into laughter. “What a great example for little Dominique!”

Bill and Fleur had asked Pansy and Harry to be godparents for their second daughter. Harry was simply happy to have another godchild in addition to Teddy, who was already fast friends with Bill and Fleur’s eldest, Victoire, and was excited to meet baby Dominique. But Pansy? Pansy accepted the honour with her usual pizzazz, and then spent half an hour barricaded in a lab, emerging from there with red eyes and not-quite-perfect make-up. Despite her bluster, this kind of acceptance meant a lot for her.

“Shut up. It wasn’t that.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure Arthur knows by now that you’re an equal opportunity baiter,” Harry said. “Why, if Astoria Greengrass was in that water, you’d swallowed her whole, indigestion be damned.”

“You’re laughing, but I was doing it for the cause!”

“What cause? Bringing attention to endangered species?”

“That’s always a good cause. Sharks are gravely misunderstood.” Pansy lifted her chin. “But no. I was loosening up Theo’s tongue. Who knew he’s not the lightweight he used to be?”

“So, did you learn anything? And, most importantly, can you remember it in the morning?”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny, Potter. In fact, I did. And I do.” Pansy gave him her favourite of smug looks, the one that said ‘I know something you don’t.’

“And?” Harry leaned forward.

“I was right about Astoria!” She crowed, hopping onto her desk.

“Astoria?”

“Yes! The cow herself. You didn’t believe me, but I have proof now.” Pansy was bursting with excitement. “So. Theo wanted Daphne to break up with Goldstein for years. She wouldn’t do it, though, because she didn’t want to end up like her sister.” She leaned forward, dangling her feet. “Mortimer and Cordelia Greengrass don’t approve of tying their name to the family of notorious ex-Death Eaters. Really don’t approve. They froze all Astoria’s accounts on the day of her engagement and promised to strike her out of their will on the wedding day.”

“They’re disinheriting her?”

“No, that would be a scandal. Nothing official. Nothing that would make people talk,” Pansy said with a scoff. “But dear Astoria has no money of her own except for what she’s been getting as a lowly schoolteacher. Didn’t have for a while now.”

“The school is expensive.” Andromeda was thinking about sending Teddy there, but decided to homeschool him for now. “She must be earning enough.”

“But not enough to sustain the lifestyle she’s been accustomed to.”

“Malfoy is loaded,” Harry said doubtfully.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to depend on him. Or he doesn’t know about her financial troubles. And with that hundred thousand galleons, he never needs to know!”

“Astoria’s parents don’t make secret of the fact that they disapprove of Malfoy.” Harry remembered Mortimer’s chilly stares and Cordelia’s passive aggression. “I’m sure they remind him of that any chance they get.”

“That must be hard for poor Astoria too. If only she wasn’t the younger child. Then they’d think twice about antagonizing their only heiress like that.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Really,” Harry said finally. “Astoria murdered her own sister. That’s what you’re saying?”

“It’s a basic deduction. Cui prodest, as they say. Always look at who profits off it.”

Uh-oh. Pansy was quoting Latin already. Never a good sign.

“Why hire us, then?” Harry asked with exaggerated patience. “And how does Nott’s book come into this?”

“I can’t have all the answers, can I?” Pansy jumped from the desk and got their Pensieve out of the cabinet. “Speaking of the book.” She dropped the matter of Astoria abruptly, but the conviction was shining in her eyes. “Theo said Daphne’d never been to his library, but it’s not necessarily true.”

“He lied?”

“No, he’s convinced of it. But she certainly had a chance. The last time she visited was the second of May.”

“The Anniversary?” Harry asked sharply.

“Yes. Interesting date, and not as long ago as he implied.” Pansy produced a bottle of rum, empty except for a pearlescent substance floating on the bottom, and flipped it over. The memory poured into the stone basin together with a drop of a caramel liquid. Harry winced.

“What’s in the memory?”

“The visit.”

“Should we watch it?”

“We absolutely should,” she said. “It was her idea to go to his place and she stayed for the night—which she usually never did—but when he woke up the next morning, she’d already left. Theo’s convinced it was going to be a turning point in their relationship. But what if she just wanted to get into the house that day?”

“How did you convince him to give the memory?” It was bound to be an intensely private moment.

“Rum.” Pansy pointed at the bottle. “Lots and lots of rum. I do hope he doesn’t remember giving me this.”

Lowering her head to the swirling surface, dark strands of her bob touching it first, Pansy took the plunge. With much less grace, Harry followed.

They appeared in the Ministry Hall decorated with golden lightning-shaped balloons and shooting stars, two giant crossed wands looming over the entrance. ‘Happy V-Day!’ read an enormous banner. The letter V was made up of the two wands as well. Every once in a while, they would shoot red and green sparkles.

“Merlin,” Harry muttered. Did the wizarding world have no shame? Oh, who was he kidding. Of course, it didn’t.

The memory swam and blurred a bit, tinged with sepia—the result of marinating in alcohol overnight. That reminded Harry how he himself spent that day. He received the invitation to this merry affair, as he did every year, and burned it without opening. Hogwarts held a much more tasteful and solemn ceremony, the invitation to which he also declined. The idea of walking into the Great Hall on that day made his stomach churn. And Severus felt the same, if the way his temper had grown increasingly short each day leading to the anniversary of the Battle was any indication. On the morning of the second of May, he descended on some unfortunate Gryffindors attempting to sneak to the Shrieking Shack with vitriol Harry hadn’t seen from him since the war.

With only a token protest, Harry talked Severus into joining him on his annual crash at Ron and Hermione’s, where they proceeded to get blindingly drunk. The only upside of that miserable affair was that somewhere between the second bottle of Ogden’s and the heated argument about Dumbledore, Ron finally came to terms with Harry’s relationship with Severus.

In contrast, the mood of the crowd in the memory was cheery and festive. The live band was playing some upbeat tune, and the couples were twirling on the dance floor with smiles on their faces. Harry spotted Nott skulking in the shadow of the column, eyes trained on one couple in particular.

Daphne Greengrass was dancing with Roger Davies, golden hair cascading down the back her midnight blue robe. Roger said something, making her throw her head back and laugh. Nott’s scowl deepened.

As the song finished playing, the pair left the dance floor and parted. Just as Daphne was going to accept another offer to dance, this time from some tall greying wizard, Goldstein came up to her with an apologetic expression on his face.

Harry made his way to them in time to hear Goldstein speak.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave early, Daph,” he said. “Something I’ve eaten doesn’t quite agree with me.”

“Of course, darling.” Daphne’s eyes scanned the crowd behind her fiancé, briefly stopping on Nott. “It must be the cheap champagne they are serving.”

“Perhaps. You’re staying?”

“Just a couple more dances.”

Goldstein nodded, visibly relieved. Daphne briefly put a hand on his arm and gave him a distracted smile before leaving him to head to the floo.

Detaching himself from the column, Nott steered through the crowd towards her.

“A dance?” he asked hopefully.

“You know we can’t.”

“Your oaf has left already.” Nott glanced towards the fireplaces lined along one of the walls.

“Tell you what,” Daphne murmured, snatching a glass of champagne from a floating tray. “Leave now. I’ll join you in fifteen minutes.”

“At mine?”

“Yes. There’s no knowing when Anthony might floo-call.”

With an eager nod, Nott made his way to the nearest fireplace as well. On his way, he passed Astoria and Malfoy without noticing them. Despite the haughty mask and nose up in the air, Malfoy stood stiff as a board, clutching his glass like a lifeline. Astoria whispered something gently into his ear and put a soothing hand on his back, making him relax a bit. She followed Nott with narrowed eyes, glancing over to her sister. Daphne looked back straight at her, and they exchanged smiles that could almost pass as genuine.

“They’ve got better at this since school,” Pansy commented.

The Ministry hall dissolved into a drawing-room much like the one at Grimmauld Place before the renovation: once-grand furnishings long past their prime. Before they could take a proper look, the memory changed once again, presenting a bedroom with a four-poster bed now.

“Who in Merlin’s name apparates in their own house? Walk the damn stairs, Theo, or you’ll end up bigger than Slughorn in no time!”

Harry eyed the man, thin to the point of gauntness, dubiously. When nothing happened for a minute, he sped up the memory with a wave of his hand, fast-forwarding through Nott changing sheets twice and smoothing his hair obsessively.

Nott apparated back to the drawing-room just as the fireplace flared to life. Daphne emerged gracefully from the flames, brushing invisible specks of soot from her dress robes. She stepped closer to Nott, putting one finger to his lips as he started to say something.

“Shh. No more words. I want you to make me feel alive tonight,” she said with an intense glint in her eye, so different from the placid pleasantry of her public persona. She snaked her arms around his neck, drawing his head down to hers for a kiss.

Harry sped up the memory again, politely averting his eyes. At some point, they were back in the bedroom. He suddenly found the rune filled parchments on the bedside table _extremely_ interesting.

“Slow it down,” Pansy hissed.

He obliged.

“I love you, Daphne,” Nott murmured sleepily, putting a possessive hand across Daphne’s bare stomach.

“I love you too, darling.” Daphne was much more awake. She reached under her pillow and retrieved a wand. “ _Somnus_ ,” she whispered.

The memory ended abruptly, ejecting Harry and Pansy back into the office.

“She planned it,” Harry said as their feet touched the floor. “She planned this visit to his house. Maybe even getting rid of Goldstein.”

Pansy nodded, frowning in thought. Harry cleared up the tea with a flick of his wand—take that, Aunt Petunia—and settled down at his desk to look through Daphne’s letters once again.


	9. Chapter 9

“You need to look into Astoria,” Pansy said. “Or I’ll do it myself.”

Having stalked to Harry’s desk, she was now looming over him with her arms crossed over her chest. For someone just over five feet tall, she had an impressive loom.

“No!” Harry jerked his head from the picture of Daphne and the turbaned lady he was studying. He could just imagine Pansy’s methods when it came to Astoria. Probably transfigure her into a paperweight to ‘keep out of trouble’ for the whole time of the investigation. And then some. “I have a couple of ideas.”

With a last look at the photo, he pinned it to the half-finished board together with other notes and photos from the case. He’d seen it in a movie once and thought it was neat, to the delight of Hermione. Besides, it protected the wall from any Legilimency tapestries Pansy would want to put up for Parvati’s visit tomorrow.

“O-oh, the board! You haven’t taken it out since the vampire case.” Pansy’s eyes twinkled. “Trying to impress your boyfriend with your superior organisation skills?”

As she said it, the Gringotts statement under the name of A.S. Greengrass came off, gliding to the ground. Harry caught it with a curse and hit it with a double sticking charm. Pansy snickered.

“Go sweet-talk Arthur, witch.”

After she left to explain her drunken shenanigans to the Ministry, Harry penned a couple of letters and went to get Moonshine.

Coming into _Weasley’s Cursebreaking_ , Harry never knew what he would find on any given day. This time, in the middle of the office, there was an ornate full-length mirror with intricate silver vines wreathed around the frame. Bill and Fleur were inspecting it with twin frowns, never coming too close. The mirror reflected the room but not the people; the only living creature it showed was a familiar tabby cat that wasn’t there this side of the glass. The cat was sitting with its nose pressed to the mirror, meowing silently.

“Hey, isn’t this the same cat from Saturday? The one that got turned into a figurine?” Harry asked.

“The very same,” Bill said, turning around and giving him a conspiratorial grin. “Third time we have him over this week. Mr. Hairypaws is the name, but with the amount of trouble he gets in, we simply call him Harry.”

“Oi!”

“It was Severus’s idea,” he said with a far too amused expression on his face.

Harry turned to the third occupant in the room, if you discounted the cat, a blond baby sitting safe on a high chair, sucking on a dummy with utmost concentration on her tiny face.

“See, Dominique? You godfather is a joke to them!” he complained, putting his hand to his forehead in his best imitation of offended Pansy.

Dominique only blinked at him, dispelling all hopes of taking his comedy act on the road. When Moonshine flew up to him, making her clap her chubby hands excitedly, he decided the fault laid with his cute audience. Plebeian child. The air around her flared blue, crackling with magic. The strong magic barrier surrounding the high chair was long honed on Victoire and Teddy, whose curious little hands reached where they shouldn’t every time they visited.

Giving Moonshine instructions, Harry tied the letter to his leg. The owl nipped his ear affectionately and swooped to the window, but not before giving the mirror a stink eye. That was another reason Moonshine was living here: despite his loopy appearance, he always had the sense to avoid even the best-hidden curses.

Bill made a series of complicated wand motions and taps, muttering something under his breath. A quill that hovered over a piece of parchment at his side came to life, scribbling furiously. Meanwhile Fleur, who preferred dealing with curses on people rather than objects, went to the mound of books and scrolls she called her desk.

“Say, Fleur,” said Harry. “How do you like Ceridwen Academy?”

She looked at him curiously, reaching to tie her white-blond hair into a bun. On anyone else, it would be called messy, but on her, it looked deliberately artful. She put her wand through it to keep the hair together.

“We’re very pleased with it. Victoire loves going there, and the quality of education is almost as good as in my primary in Marseilles,” she said. “I don’t know what we’d do without it.”

“Mum—” Bill started, looked at his wife’s face, and turned back to the mirror.

“As I was saying. There’s simply no other option,” she said, enunciating every word. Molly and Fleur had come a long way since she started dating Bill, but distance was the key to keep the hearts fond in that particular relationship. “Why do you ask, ‘Arry?”

“I thought about enrolling Teddy there too.”

“Doesn’t Andromeda want to homeschool him for another year at least?”

“Well, she does, but I think Teddy would love to have more friends his age. There’s Victoire, and he’s friendly with a muggle boy next door, but you know how it is.”

“Too many things he has to keep quiet about.” Fleur nodded.

“Not to mention, he cannot keep his hair one colour for longer than an hour.”

“In the end, it’s Andromeda’s call, but it would be good for her, too,” said Fleur with a slight frown. “I can’t image sending Vic away for months to the boarding school yet, but for Andie, it’s going to be heart-breaking.”

Harry nodded. Teddy was Andromeda’s whole world.

“Did you have Astoria Greengrass as a teacher?” he asked.

“Yes, until this year.”

“And what d’you think of her?”

“She’s very good with children. Always so patient,” she said before giving an elegant shudder. “I don’t know how she’s doing it. Every time I set foot there, all those _moutards_ are running and screaming at the top of their lungs. Two minutes, and I’m ready to spurt a beak and claws.”

“I thought you cannot do that.”

Fleur mentioned once that as only a quarter-Veela, she didn’t have any of their bird-like characteristics.

“If anyone can make me finally transform, it’s them. Thank heavens our Victoire is so well-behaved.”

In truth, Victoire was a mischief-making pixie disguised as a little girl, but Harry knew better than to point facts like that out to proud parents.

Out in the hall, the door to the lab flew open.

“Keep stirring until the colour turns lavender. Lavender, not lilac, Creevey!” Severus commanded. “Steady movements, firm grip on the rod. You’re brewing a potion, not masturbating furtively back in your Gryffindor dormitory!”

“I feel bad for poor Dennis,” said Harry, stifling a snort.

“Ragnok, my supervisor in Gringotts, called me nothing but ‘that filthy good-for-nothing long-legger’ throughout my apprenticeship. And had a nasty habit of testing curses on me to see if I can break them fast enough to keep my skin from peeling.” Bill shrugged.

“Sadly, I’m not allowed to do that anymore,” Severus said, entering the office.

Harry knew it couldn’t have been further from the truth. Many of Severus’s nightmares that woke him screaming were about his time as the Headmaster when had had to allow the torturing of students. He had never wanted to dish anything other than creative tongue-lashings on them.

“Look what we’ve got here!” Bill said, pointing at the mirror. He looked very much like George at that moment, bouncing on his feet from the excitement of a new puzzle.

“A mirror trap?” Severus looked closer. “You must be joking!”

The cat raised its paw and scratched the mirror from the other side. His tail twitched miserably.

Severus tsked. “As you can see, William, saving Harry is a thankless task.”

“Oi!”

“Not everything is about you, Potter. I’m talking about the cat here.” Severus’s lips quirked.

Turning Severus around, Harry marched him out of Bill and Fleur’s office and inside his own, forgetting that he was pretending to be mad midway.

“Do you want to grab something for lunch?” he asked, glancing at the clock. “We could go to that Italian place again.”

“Their pasta was acceptable,” said Severus. “I’m finished with my potion for now, and Creevey can do the rest.”

The window opened, letting Moonshine in. It was charmed to do that, or he would bang against the pane with all his might instead of tapping and waiting patiently like any self-respecting owl. He dropped a reply he’d been holding in his beak, waited for a treat and a compliment, and took off again, the second letter still tied to his leg.

“That was fast,” Harry said, opening the parchment. “Oh! I was planning to drop by Andromeda later today, but she’s asking us over. She’s making lasagne! We can’t miss her signature dish.”

Severus’s expression shut down. “I’m sure it’s delicious,” he said in a tight voice.

“But?”

“Unfortunately, I’ve just remembered I must contact my boomslang skin supplier. Please convey my sincere apologies to Madam Tonks.”

“Your boomslang skin supplier, huh?” Harry narrowed his eyes. “Severus. You’re not even trying.”

He hadn’t questioned Severus’s reluctance to meet Andromeda and Teddy at first, when they had been trying to find their way around each other still. The school had kept them busy anyway, and Harry, to his regret, hadn’t always been able to spare much time for his godson. When the exams finally rolled up in June, Andromeda took Teddy for an extended holiday, partly spent at Malfoys’ chateaux in France as a part of a sisterly reunion.

But that was three visits ago, and Severus’s excuses were growing increasingly ridiculous. Last week, he had announced going to Hogwarts to help Hagrid deal with flesh-eating slug infestation. And now this.

Severus just glared at him down the impressive length of his nose.

“Teddy’s going to love you.”

“I don’t care what the snot-nosed brat thinks of me.” His lips became one thin line.

“Don’t call him that,” Harry said, sharper than he intended. In fact, Teddy was a bit of a brat, especially with a Godfather who let him get away with far too much. But Severus, who had never met him, wasn’t entitled to have that opinion. “Is it because he’s a Lupin?”

“What?” Severus asked, startled. “No. I just don’t like children. You know that.”

“And yet you’ve been great with Aurora’s kids.” Severus was much more patient with the Astronomy Professor’s eight-year-old than with any student. And little Perseus was _trouble_. “Listen, Severus, I’m not asking you to entertain him, or anything.”

“I’d like to see you try.” Severus raised his chin.

Harry was starting to understand the problem. This wasn’t an issue with Ron and Hermione, who had waylaid Severus on one of their early visits to Hogwarts. Despite Harry’s loud protests, they were determined to dash a proper “meet the family” treatment on poor Severus, whether he was ready for it or not.

Those two were a fearsome duo indeed. Overly cheerful Hermione quizzed Severus on his intentions while Ron reminisced about Rita Skeeter’s stay in his wife’s jar with a meaningful expression. Which, in turn, offended Hermione. How could her own husband threaten Severus with her person? Instead of reassuring everybody that her days of violence were over, though, she reminded Ron that he had the entire joke shop full of questionable products at hand. He could exact his own revenge for breaking Harry’s heart instead of relying on her for that. All in all, that first meeting with his friends went as well as Neville’s first meeting with a cauldron.

Teddy was Harry’s family, and Andromeda was an unknown variable. Severus was anxious and covered that the only way he could. By being a prickly git.

This required a subtle, diplomatic approach.

“You’re afraid to meet them,” Harry said, raising his eyebrows.

Severus reared back, expression thunderous. “Don’t you dare call—”

“Both of you are the most important people to me,” he pressed on, taking Severus’s hand in his. “I don’t need you to visit Teddy with me every week, but I don’t want to keep these two areas of my life separate either.”

Severus wasn’t completely mollified but didn’t yank his hand away.

“I’ll make it up to you, too.” Harry waggled his eyebrow with a leer.

“Very well. I’ll accompany you to the Tonks residence.”

“Thank you, Severus,” he said gently, leaning in for a kiss.

“I don’t appreciate your artless attempts at emotional manipulation one whit, Potter.”

Harry sent him a bashful smile but refused to feel too much guilt about getting his way. Compromising didn’t come naturally for Severus, and Harry’s heart fluttered in his chest every time his lover was willing to make an effort.

He considered a detour to Diagon to get a Swedish Short-Snout figurine he’d been eyeing earlier this week in the toy shop window, but that would definitely be the straw to break the thestral’s back. Picking up a pinch of floo powder and throwing it in the fireplace, Harry stepped into the green flames.

“Tonks’s place!”

Tumbling out with his usual grace, he was nearly knocked over by an eight-year-old zooming right up to him on a toy broom. “Uncle Harry!”

“Hi, monkey!” Harry ruffled Teddy’s hair, turquoise today. “Does your Nan know you are flying inside again?”

A blush spread over Teddy’s cheeks and spilled onto his bangs. It only got deeper when the floo flared again and Severus stepped out. He was wearing a different robe over his shirt and trousers from the one he had been brewing in, although a less discerning eye wouldn’t make a distinction. All Severus’s everyday robes were the same: long, black, and austere.

“Teddy, I want you to meet Severus Snape—”

“Are you Uncle Harry’s boyfriend?” the boy blurted, rolling off the broom.

“Yes, I am.” Severus stood stiff as a board, not even protesting the offending ‘boyfriend’ term. “Hello, Edward.”

Teddy giggled. “Nan only calls me that when I’m in trouble.” Red crept further up into in his blue hair. “Nan says you do potions.”

“Make potions,” Severus corrected. “Or brew.”

“Right.” Teddy gave a sage nod. “And Aunt Narcissa said you’re cur-mu-dudgeon. I’m not sure what it means, though.”

“Did she.” Severus’s left eye twitched. “I had no idea I was a topic of conversation here.”

“Can you make a potion to drink and fly without a broom?” Teddy asked excitedly.

“Yes, I can.”

Harry had never heard of such a potion, but if anyone could invent it, it was Severus. “Actually, Severus here can fly without a broom. Or a potion,” he said.

“Wow.” Teddy looked at Severus with new-found hero-worship.

“Edward Remus Lupin! Is that a broom I’m seeing?”

“Uh-oh,” Harry said.

Hair deep-red, Teddy grabbed the broom and sprinted out of the room, slamming the brakes to a leisurely walk when he pulled level with his grandmother in the hall.

“It went great, didn’t it?” Harry muttered to Severus with a smile. “You didn’t have anything to worry about.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Well, if it isn’t the elusive man himself.” Andromeda Tonks strode into the living room.

“Severus Snape, at your service.” Severus gave a formal half-bow. “Pleasure to meet you, Madam Tonks.”

“Do call me Andromeda.” She waved him off. “Finally, I can meet the fashion icon of the summer properly.”

“Andie, please,” Harry groaned, putting one hand over his eyes while the other found its way around Severus’s shoulders. He didn’t need wands drawn this early into the conversation. “Since when do you listen to wireless, anyway?”

“I don’t, but Cissy does.”

“You’re on speaking terms again?”

The road to understanding for the two sisters was rather bumpy. The visit to the Malfoys in France ended early with Andromeda taking Teddy and storming out. She was cagey on the details, but Lucius apparently played a major part.

“My sister’s been making up for Blondie running his mouth again.”

Severus let out a muffled sound that could reasonably pass as a cough.

“He’s been in a funk.” Andromeda’s face told them exactly what she thought about that. “Sulking that the whole world is against him, and even his only friend left him in his time of need.”

“Lucius and his drama.” Severus snorted derisively.

“A quality all Malfoy men seem to share,” Harry added.

Long tiered dress billowing behind her like Severus’s school robes, Andromeda lead them into the kitchen.

“Black sisters have always brought out the worst homicidal urges in me,” Severus muttered to Harry under his breath as they followed. “I don’t know why I thought this one would be different.”

The kitchen with cheery Cannons-orange cupboards and Muggle appliances was littered with parchment, quills and coloured pencils. Harry took one from the table as he sat. A blue crup was drawn in a childish hand on the one side, while the other contained a detailed depiction of a sixteenth-century Japanese flaying curse in Andromeda’s cursive handwriting. Severus snatched the parchment, eyebrows climbing to the hairline.

“Notes for my latest book,” Andromeda said, erasing the notes and sending the picture to the wall, next to more of Teddy’s drawings, with a flick of her wand.

“Your spell history series?” Harry asked. She wrote everything from bodice rippers to noir novels to non-fiction under half a dozen different pen names.

“No, the new part of The Princess of Ascania. My novels for children and teens,” she explained to Severus.

“A children’s story more gruesome than the Warlock’s Hairy Heart?” he asked, eying Andromeda with a wary fascination.

“Don’t you worry, everything will be age-appropriate,” Andromeda said, opening the oven. “Now, I promised you some lasagne. Let’s eat, and then you can tell me why you’re so interested in Teddy’s schooling options all of the sudden.”

Plates full of the savoury dish floated to the table, bringing Teddy to the kitchen with its delicious aroma.

“So good,” Harry moaned around the fork.

Severus sent him a somewhat betrayed look. “Don’t speak with your mouth full,” he said.

Teddy snickered at Harry being scolded.

“Severus here makes a mean roast chicken,” said Harry after he was done swallowing and rolling his eyes.

“Nice to hear that you finally have somebody to break your appalling takeaway habits,” Andromeda said, blotting her grandson’s mouth with a napkin.

Halfway through the meal, a bike horn dinged outside the window. Teddy fidgeted.

“Can I play with Steve, Nan?”

Andromeda made him eat most of his lasagne and let him go with a sigh.

“Go play with your friend, but remember to control your appearance.”

Teddy nodded vigorously, changing his hair to sandy brown, and dashed out of the kitchen.

“No running inside!” Andromeda shook her head in exasperation.

“Bye, Uncle Harry! Bye, Mr. Severus!” Teddy shouted from the hall as an afterthought.

“So.” She banished the dishes to the sink where the sponge flew up and started washing them.

Helping himself to some Jaffa cakes Andromeda produced from the pantry, Harry related his plan.

“You want us to visit the Ceridwen Academy so you can snoop around Astoria Greengrass while I’m enrolling Teddy there,” she summed up.

“That’s right.” Harry nodded.

“And you also have the underlying motive of changing my mind about homeschooling Teddy before Hogwarts.”

If Harry was a Metamorphmagus as well, his hair would turn red now.

“You’re not very subtle, Harry.”

“I keep telling him that,” Severus agreed.

“The Sorting Hat wanted to put me into Slytherin, you know,” Harry said before biting into another cake.

Both Severus and Andromeda looked at him as if he’d grown a second head.

* * *

“You did great today,” Harry said after they returned to Grimmauld Place that evening.

“Don’t patronise me, Potter.” As usual, Severus hid his preening behind a bristle. He took off his robe, folding it neatly, and put a book on Japanese curses he’d borrowed from Andromeda on the bedside table.

“You did, though.” Harry grinned before his expression turned thoughtful. "Andromeda mentioned that the Malfoys chilled to Astoria in the last year. I wonder what that’s about."

“I can pay them a visit if you want,” Severus offered with a wince. It was obvious from his tone that the prospect didn’t sound in any way enticing. “Narcissa has been bombarding me with requests to come by and shake Lucius out of his rut for a while now.”

“You don’t have to. I’ve noticed that you aren’t eager to keep in touch with them.”

“No, no. I confess I’m curious how dear Blondie is doing nowadays,” Severus said with a rather mean-spirited smirk.

Harry gave him a grin of his own. He'd be sure to remember the nickname next time he saw the stuck-up pureblood fanning his peacock tail again.

“Now, I remember being offered a bribe earlier today.” Like a snake striking from the grass, Severus crowded into Harry’s space in one long stride. “You cannot deny I performed exceptionally well in the face of adversity.”

“Adversity?” Harry laughed, working his hands around Severus’s neck.

Severus pushed him until his back touched the wardrobe, intercepting his hands at the wrists and pinning them with his own over Harry’s head. Severus’s teeth grazed his ear, mouth found his jaw. With a sharp inhale, Harry arched, trying to mould himself into him, needing to be closer still.

“Indeed,” Severus murmured. “And I know just the reward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done polishing False Pretences with my amazing beta. Check out the first fic in the series if you still haven't and want some more adventures of PI Harry!


	10. Chapter 10

“This is MY mermaid!”

“But I WANT it!”

Harry winced at the volume level a dozen tiny lungs were able to produce on the playground. He understood what Fleur had meant better now.

In two purposeful steps, Astoria Greengrass came over to the two little girls arguing over a mermaid doll. A Fanged Frisbee swished past her, and she froze it in the air with a practised move without slowing down herself.

“We don’t just take other children’s toys, Harriet,” she chided gently, lowering herself down on one knee to the girl’s eye-level. “If you want something, you have to ask politely.”

Andromeda grimaced as well, although Harry suspected her reasons were different. She watched Teddy as he craned his head, shifting his gaze from the frozen Frisbee to a boy his age on a hovering scooter. Eyes wide, he seemed to forget how to breathe. If she said he couldn’t attend the school after all, she’d better start preparing herself for a mighty week-long tantrum.

This could still happen, but Harry knew Andromeda. If she saw that the school would truly be good for Teddy, she would let him go. However heavy her own heart might be, she always put her grandson first.

“You’re good with them,” Harry said as Astoria turned to him.

“I love children.” She smiled. “And who is this fine young man?”

“My godson, Teddy Lupin.”

“Well, hello there.” With kids, Astoria’s expression was so much more open. Even her posture changed, becoming more relaxed.

Teddy stepped closer to Andromeda, suddenly shy.

“You’re too old to be in my year, but I’m sure you will love Mrs. Brown.”

“Any relation to Lavender Brown?” Harry asked.

“Her mother.”

He felt Andromeda relaxing marginally beside him. At least now they could be sure Teddy wouldn’t be singled out because of his werewolf father.

There was a shriek as the toy mermaid turned into a living, flopping fish in the hands of one of the girls fighting over it. Astoria hurried back to the pair, while Harry, Teddy and Andromeda headed to the two-storey red-brick building.

A plump witch with smile lines around her eyes was waiting for them on the steps.

"Headmistress Pryce." Harry inclined his head.

She greeted them warmly. While Harry hated to use his fame, he couldn’t deny that sometimes it came in handy. By the time he and Severus returned from Andromeda’s the previous day, Moonshine had already been waiting for them with a prompt appointment. Any other person would be put on a long waiting list. Even with steep prices, any opening in Ceridwen Academy was filled in a matter of days.

Leaving Andromeda and Teddy to talk with Headmistress, Harry went to wander. The walls of the cheery foyer boasted children’s drawings and photos, and a glass cabinet to the right of the entrance proudly featured three cups—gold, silver and bronze. As Harry went upstairs, the door of the nearest classroom opened, and a group of almost Hogwarts-age kids stomped outside.

He stepped back from another shouting wave assaulting his ears. This was the one aspect of teaching he didn’t appreciate. By the time they reached Hogwarts, children weren’t so loud, thank Merlin. Even so, after a day of classes with younger years, Harry sympathised with Severus’s educational methods a little bit more.

A straw-blond witch with an affable smile stood in the doorway, waiting for the last girl to pack her backpack and leave.

The girl’s gaze grazed Harry before she whipped her head about and did a double-take.

“You’re Harry Potter!”

"Guilty as charged.” He gave her a crooked smile.

“I’m going to be at Hogwarts this year!”

“That’s great.”

“Will you be my teacher?" she asked. “My brother says you taught him last year.”

“Sorry, but no. Only the sixth and seventh years this time."

“Bummer.” The girl sighed. “But your boyfriend is still teaching Potions, right? Johnny told me he’s mea—strict, but the wireless says he’s an expert in clothes.”

The witch smothered a laugh.

Harry sighed. Beginning of the next school year promised to be long and very, very trying. “Your brother is right in that Professor Snape is strict. You should always be prepared for his lessons, and never ask him personal questions. Or about fashion.”

“Run along, Jenny,” the witch said. “Your friends are waiting.”

The little menace dashed out to the other two young girls, who were darting glances at them and giggling at the end of the corridor.

“Children.” The witch shook her head.

“I’m starting to dread September.”

“If even half of what I’ve heard from Lavender about Professor’s Snape’s teaching techniques is true, you don’t have anything to worry about,” she said with a wry smile. “Violet Brown.”

He shook the proffered hand.

“What brings you here, Mr. Potter?” Mrs. Brown asked, motioning him inside. Unlike the ageless classrooms of the medieval castle, this one looked modern and almost mundane if not for a sponge cleaning the whiteboard by itself.

She sat at her desk, and Harry squeezed into the first seat in the front row, his knees bumping at the wood.

“We’re thinking about enrolling my godson here, his Grandmother and I.”

For the next twenty minutes, Mrs. Brown waxed poetic about education in Ceridwen Academy. Harry’s head swam a bit at all the extra-curriculum offers. The only after-school activity he’d gotten in his childhood was running away from Dudley and his gang.

“Teddy’s eight, right? He’ll be in my class this September, then,” she said.

“But you have kids here all year round, right?”

“Yes. Daycare, Hogwarts preparation classes, summer camp, you name it. Parents don’t have summer holidays for two months straight." Her lips twisted wryly.

“My friend Fleur—Fleur Weasley—swears by you.”

“Oh, little Victoire. Molly often complains over tea that her grandkids could just stay with her during the day if her daughters-in-law insist on working. Between you and me, I understand the younger Mrs. Weasley completely," Mrs. Brown lowered her voice conspiratorially as if expecting the Weasley matriarch to be listening in at the door.

“You’re a great help for the parents. I can’t imagine how they coped before this school opened up."

“Tutors for those who can afford them. Many witches cooperate. I ran a group for little ones in my house since my Lavender was little." She shook her head at the memories. "It started sort of accidentally, you know. I was a stay-at-home mum and other parents here in Falmouth all worked demanding jobs. Then some families from our resident Quidditch team, the Falcons, heard about us and wanted in. And now look at me."

Harry smiled.

“It’s all thanks to young Astoria, you know."

“Astoria Greengrass?”

“Yes. We started Ceridwen the year after the war. With so many families who lost one parent—” A shadow flit across Mrs. Brown’s face. “It wasn’t much of an academy then, though. Me, the Pryces and old Muriel Prewett, thank Merlin she retired already.”

Remembering the Weasley’s dreaded Great-Aunt, Harry couldn’t help but nod.

“Astoria came on board the next year, straight from Hogwarts. The Greengrasses donated a lot of gold to turn our village school into the establishment it is today.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice again. “I don’t think Astoria’s parents liked the idea of her being a mere teacher, and not even a Hogwarts one, very much. They expected her to be bored in a year, though. So they threw some galleons at us to make her choice seem more respectable in the meantime,” she said. “Well, their mistake. This girl is a natural with little ones.”

“I’ve seen Astoria on the playground earlier today. She was very good with those five-year-olds,” Harry said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I love teaching, but I wouldn’t know what to do with such young kids, to be completely honest. Don’t know how you and Astoria manage it.”

“We all have our preferences,” Mrs. Brown said indulgently. “And for Astoria, this school is her passion. I half suspect all the later donations from the Greengrasses—much smaller, note—were from her own pockets.” She furrowed her brow. “It’s a pity her family doesn’t support her in her calling. I always got a feeling they favoured their eldest. It’s a moot point now, of course, with what happened.” She gave him a questioning glance.

“Daphne.” Harry nodded. “A tragic death.”

“I listened to her programme, of course. Who didn’t? But that lifestyle of hers—” she trailed off.

“Did you know her?”

“No, not personally. She never set her foot here.” Mrs. Brown pursed her lips. “She was a high-flyer, a dryad among us lowly bowtruckles,” she said, carding through a stack of parchment in front of her. “Astoria is earning an honest galleon and doing a great good job here. It’s not my place to say so, but I think her parents should be more appreciative of her.”

“Family support is important,” Harry said. “Lavender is always saying how thankful she is to have you in her corner.”

“Well, yes. I’m supportive of her fight, even though I wish she’d choose something less risky. To think of it, we were worried about her wanting a career in Divination,” she chuckled.

“Yes, I remember those times.” Harry returned the smile.

“It’s my fault, partially. We’ve always had _The Third Eye_ issues back at home, and I’m a bit of a crystal and gemstone magic enthusiast.”

“Gemstone magic?” Those were good for holding protective enchantments and curses and for crushing them into some potions, but Harry hadn’t thought of them as having magic of their own.

“Yes. Like this red goldstone here.” She pointed at her necklace of maroon crystals with copper flecks. Their innate healing qualities boost my energy level and help me deal with the little hellions here.”

“I need to buy some of those.” He could arrange a bunch of them around the house in glass bowls, the ones Hermione bought for him in his first year in Grimmauld Place, when crested china vases and ash urns was all it had to offer for decoration. He doubted the crystals themselves would have any real effect, but Severus’s reaction to ‘red goldstone’ was bound to be sufficiently invigorating.

“People don’t think twice about it nowadays, but all the gems and crystals are influencing our behaviour. The one time I saw Astoria wearing black onyx, two weeks ago, she was almost rude. Not like her usual self at all.”

“She was wearing onyx?” Harry perked up.

“Yes! Not a good stone, and even worse in combination with a gold chain,” she said, oblivious to Harry sudden interest. “And this is after her sister’s death as well. Black onyx amplifies negativity and Dark magic.”

Could it be why Daphne bought the necklace? And Astoria must have taken it for whatever reason. She appeared to be surprised when he had asked her about it. Not a hint that she ever saw it and here she was seen wearing it. Why would she lie about it?

Harry didn’t let any of the hundred questions swarming in his mind show on his face. “I know what you mean. I remember seeing her with it, and she seemed anxious. It was Saturday, right?” he probed, naming the day when Astoria apparently went to her sister’s flat and was Obliviated.

“Yes, back here in Falmouth from my usual Saturday Diagon shopping trip. You have to pamper yourself a little after a long week at work.”

A freckled redhead boy stuck his head into the door and ran back to the corridor after seeing Harry.

“Oh, goodness!” Mrs. Brown clapped her hands. “Look at the time.”

Harry stood up. “It was nice chatting with you, Mrs. Brown.”

“Any time! I hope we’ll see you and little Teddy here in September!”

As little loud-voiced bludgers raced inside, Harry left the classroom and headed to the foyer. He idly studied the list of the spelling competition winners—Victoire was on top in her year—and magical creatures drawings. Predictably, dragons and Veelas were the most popular, but there were also a couple of kneazles, a blob of red and brown proudly named BLAST-EИDed SKREWt, and one surprisingly well-drawn platypus.

He didn’t have to wait long before Andromeda appeared hand in hand with Teddy who somehow acquired a spot of green paint on his cheek.

“I hope you’ve got what you were looking for,” Andromeda said, her expression pinched.

“Yep.”

“I’m going to school this autumn!” Teddy burst out, bouncing excitedly on his toes.

“Are you?” Harry looked at Andromeda with a knowing smile.

She let out a long-suffering sigh. “He is.”

Teddy extracted a promise to get him a hovering scooter, and Andromeda made Harry swear he wouldn’t buy it before the end of September—if, and only if Teddy got good marks. With that, they flooed home from one of the two big fireplaces in the foyer, and Harry apparated to the address Pansy had given him.

With a heavy heart, Harry stepped inside a building overseeing the harbour right from the edge of the embankment. This was still the wizarding part of Falmouth, or close enough to it to have Fanged Geranium in the pots outside the windows. He still wasn’t sure about the wisdom of his decision. But learning that Astoria had had Daphne’s onyx necklace on the day she had been obliviated left him with too many questions.

Donning his Invisibility cloak and casting a silencing spell on his feet, Harry disabled the protective enchantments on the door and let himself in. The opulent living room done in green and silver was unchanged since that one time he saw it in the surveillance ball. It was a product of Malfoy’s Slytherin pride, reminding Harry of Ron sneakily repainting their own living room yellow after he had talked Hermione into buying a red couch and armchairs. The splash of waves and the tang of sea air wafted through the high windows.

Unfortunately, another kind of splashing could be heard from the bathroom across the hall, accompanied by a surprisingly decent version of _Love Hit Me Like A Stunner_. Although perhaps Malfoy’s voice shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. After all, he was most likely the one who wrote the original _Weasley Is Our King_ all those years ago. Pansy claimed most of the credit, but she couldn’t stay on key if her life depended on it.

Silently cursing Malfoy who managed to ruin his plans without even knowing about them, Harry took a snow globe out of the depths of his pocket. A tap of his wand, and it floated, disillusioned, to the topmost bookshelf, the exact spot where Pansy put it as well half a year ago.

The water in the bathroom stopped running, and Harry hurriedly made his way out of the apartment. A search would have to wait. Too late, he regretted not taking the crystal ball from the office somewhere Pansy couldn’t reach it. This surveillance promised to enable her in her worst habit.

Apparating to the front door of his office, Harry nearly collided with Parvati Patil. Without batting an eye, she fumbled for her umbrella in the doorway. After sunny Falmouth, London drizzle felt a bit like Celestina Warbeck on the wireless: a mild irritation one long since learned to live with.

Before Harry could muster outrage at Parvati for ignoring him, he remembered that he still had his Invisibility Cloak and the silencing spell on. Ducking into the door that had not yet closed, he was greeted by the sounds of an argument.

“Give me the ball, Professor,” Pansy hissed like an angry snake. It seemed that his concerns were well-founded. The two were having a standoff over Harry’s desk, Severus’s hand resting firmly on the crystal ball at his side.

“No, I don’t think so,” Severus said with deceptive calm. “Go deal with the Patil’s jewellery.”

“The picture has gone live. I need to see it.”

“Well, _I’ve_ never needed to see _that_.”

Through the doorway, Harry watched Severus pull the crystal ball further away from her. Pansy looked torn between lunging for it and whipping out her wand.

“Don’t even think about that, Parkinson.”

“Oh, yes? I learned a trick or two since my Hogwarts days. I know what I’m doing, _Severus_.” She sounded exceptionally pissed.

Bugger and blast. It was even worse than he’d feared. Pansy was going to do something she would regret later. As Harry reached for his wand to reveal himself and defuse the tension, Severus spoke again.

“I know what you’re doing too, _Parkinson_. I know it very well,” he said. “I’ve been there myself. It’s not a good place.”

Harry’s hand stilled on his wand.

“I’m intimately familiar with obsession and chasing the ghosts of the past.”

Harry wished he could see his face, but Severus was standing with his back to the doorway.

Startled at the pronouncement, Pansy said nothing, defiance still lingering on her face.

“In my misguided youth, I gave in to the temptation to wallow in hurt and anger. I delighted in my hate for the man who got the woman I thought of as mine—not that he didn’t deserve the hate, mind you. There were plenty of reasons. But not for that.” Severus gave a contemptuous laugh. “I’m well-versed in the art of stalking too. It twisted my craving and resentment of her, feeding into my self-loathing. Of course, there were many valid reasons to hate myself at that point.”

Harry could not have moved at that moment even if he wanted to. Severus never discussed his feelings towards his mother (and father) so openly with him. While understanding the reasons, he couldn’t help but feel an irrational pang of jealousy.

Pansy seemed to be frozen to the spot as well, eyeing Severus warily.

“I’m not your mother or your shrink. Your bad choices are yours to make. But as an expert in those, I feel I’m qualified to warn you. Living in the past won’t do you any good.”

In many ways, more than the attitude to certain aspects of the past, Pansy was indeed very much like Severus. His words had hit too close to home, so she went on defensive.

“You’re right. You’re not the one to talk about healthy relationships. The past, you say? Who docks the points from any girl who so much as glances at Potter? Even though Potter himself is totally oblivious and gay to boot? You had the entire female and a quarter of the male population over fifteen in the nastiest detentions, desiccating bullfrogs and squeezing bubotuber pus.”

That was news to Harry. He vowed to pay more attention in the future. Severus did suffer from bouts of senseless possessiveness, and students shouldn’t fall victim to that.

Eyes blazing anew, Pansy pointed an accusing finger at Severus. “One of the reasons you decided to bring your brewing here is so that you can keep an eye on me and the resident Weasleys. Bill _and_ Fleur. Aren’t you afraid that if I let go of Draco, I’ll decide I’m in love Potter next? The papers speculate, you know.”

Severus’s back tensed. When he spoke, his voice was mild and full of poison. “You, in love? You wouldn’t recognise love if it hit you in the face.”

Pansy reeled back before gathering herself to lunge forward in righteous fury. “You dare!”

He slapped his palms on the desk and leaned across, meeting her head-on. “You’re forgetting that I witnessed the grand romance of your life from its conception. You were enamoured with the idea of being the Lady of the Manor rather than Draco Malfoy’s pimply charms,” he snarled. “And after that, you resented that golden vision of your future being taken away, even though you wouldn’t know what to do with it should you get it.”

“Another one of those personal experiences?” Pansy spat, raising an eyebrow, her hands balled into fists.

“Yes.”

With that simple answer, Pansy—ready to fling hexes a moment ago—deflated.

“I loved him, you know. Despite what you might think, I really loved Draco,” she said, sounding tired. “But perhaps you’re right. Fuck the fucking ferret, as a known philosopher and thinker Ronald Weasley once said.” She spoke with exaggerated glibness, belied by a bitter twist of her lips. “Oh, and you know what, Professor? Fuck you and your insights too.”

There was a moment of silence. Cursing himself for letting this go too far, Harry was going to finally interrupt when Severus threw back head and laughed: a rare deep, full-belly sound. After a moment, Pansy joined him, sounding a bit hysterical.

Enough was enough. Harry opened the front door to the office and stepped outside, noticing absentmindedly that the rain had stopped. He lifted the silencing spell, pulled off the Cloak and entered again, stomping and shutting the door with a bang.

“Hi, Potter,” Pansy said in an overly bright voice. She turned away abruptly and got her purse from under her desk. “Hope you got what you wanted from your visit. I’d love to stay and hear all about it, but Parvati has a new case for me. An emerald nobody had seen for half a century. I’m out.”

With that, she strode out of the room without a glance at either him or Severus. The front door slammed again.

“So, er, how’s it going?” Harry asked lamely.

“Discussing the qualities of asphodel with Parkinson.”

“Oh.”

“Harry.” Severus sighed, drawing his index finger over the glossy surface of the crystal ball. “It would be hypocritical of me to shame anyone for this particular vice, but eavesdroppers rarely hear what they hope to. You should know that with your job already.”

“You knew I was there?” Harry flushed. “I apparated right from Malfoy and Astoria’s flat, still disguised. Then I wasn’t sure which one of you would hex me first if I revealed myself.”

He wondered now how much of what Severus had said was for his benefit as well. Severus struggled with frank conversations about feelings, as did Harry, if he was completely honest with himself. They skirted around certain topics they should have probably addressed earlier, preferring to leave the dusty memories in the past.

Severus let his hair fall over his face. “Parkinson is right in certain things. I’m an obsessive man. I don’t know how to lo... be with you without jealousy and possessiveness.”

“I don’t expect you to be perfect,” Harry said gently, taking a step closer and bringing his hand to Severus’s cheek. “And I like having you here. You’re always so busy back at Hogwarts, it feels like I hardly see you some days.” And nights. Damn those Slytherins and their propensity to start mischief after curfew. “Although less terrorizing the students for looking at me twice would be great. You know I love you, right? Only you.”

“So you say.” A hint of red tinged Severus’s cheeks. The words were still too new, exchanged rarely, and almost never outside the safety of the bedroom.

Sensing that he was seconds away from bolting to hole up in the lab for the rest of the day, Harry kept his tone light. “Well, that was a lot of heart-to-hearts for us repressed Englishmen. Let’s go grab something extra greasy at the Leaky while I tell you about the power of crystals. I need some proper fuel before a visit to Romilda Vane.”


	11. Chapter 11

Romilda Vane rented a small flat in the Diagon Alley, right over the shop proudly named BDSM. If you were to look closer, you would learn that the acronym actually stood for Bode and Dickson’s Seeds and Mulch. The owner was one Mrs. Bode, a spry old lady well in her hundreds. She sold gardening supplies and wondered occasionally why anybody would put a riding crop in her window for the second time that week. Most of her customers weren’t much younger than herself, so she remained blissfully unaware of the connotations of the name, to the delight of Romilda Vane and her own customers. It had to be one of them responsible for the poster on the door, a new addition since the last time Harry had been there. Slaving Your Day Away In The Garden? it asked over the picture of a witch kneeling among the greenery—ostensibly to tend to her plants—with a come-hither look on her face. Her wand was spurting water over the sprout, and the way she was holding it couldn’t be described as anything but suggestive.

Those customers usually didn’t start trickling to Romilda’s door until later in the evening, so going upstairs, Harry was very surprised to bump into two respectable middle-aged witches. They were leaving Romilda’s flat with bright shopping bags and some sort of catalogues clutched in their hands, chatting animatedly.

“Remember, you get 15 percent from orders of each witch you sign up, and 5 percent from people they sign up in turn!” Romilda smiled brightly at them. The Bellatrix-Lestrange-In-Pink look she had favoured for a couple of years now was nowhere to be seen. Instead, she was wearing a pencil dress with a simple white robe thrown over it, looking a bit like a muggle doctor.

Romilda noticed him, and her smile grew even wider, showing a hint of teeth. He considered a tactical retreat, but it was too late.

“Harry!” Both women turned and gawped at him. “I bet Harry’s here to get a refill of _Carpe Retractum Cologne_ —works like a charm to seize and pull the one your heart desires!” she chirped.

He stifled the urge to groan. “No, I’m not. Harry Potter is not endorsing any products or services at the moment,” he recited a formula Pansy had cooked up for such occasions, word for word.

“He’s very shy, our Harry.” She jostled him into the flat lightly but purposefully. Salesgirl smile never wavering on her face, she waited in the doorway until the witches disappeared downstairs, oohing and aahing.

Romilda had a one-bedroom flat, with the kitchen converted into a potions lab. Despite the lack of space, she was a creature of comfort. The sofa was overflowing with heart-shaped pillows; the mantelpiece was crowded with trinkets. Even the foe-glass over the entrance disguised itself as pink wind chimes. Her living room was also where she received her clients, so it had always been doubly cluttered. But never had it look like warehouse stuffed to the brim boxes and crates, stacks of catalogues and flyers, like it did today.

A sofa and a coffee table were moved to the side and singled out with screens. Each one of them pictured a rosebud opening and closing in slow motion and a cursive inscription that read ‘VANE’. Now that Harry looked closer, all printed materials had the same name and a symbol on them. There was a whiteboard with a multicoloured flowchart hovering in the air.

“What’s all this about?” Harry made a broad sweeping gesture with his hand.

Romilda smiled winningly and took out her wand, pointing it to the whiteboard. “Vane Corporation started...”

“Not the load of hippogriff shite you’ve fed those ladies just now.”

She pouted but put the wand away. Shaking off her white robe and banishing it with a wave of her wand, she flopped down on the sofa and stretched her arms along its back.

“I’ve been targeting the wrong demographics,” she declared. “My usual clientele are always out of money and begging for credit. Those who aren’t are either prone to ill-timed OD’ing, or fickle public figures who start dating competition and abandon their proven suppliers.”

Well, Harry refused to feel guilty about that. Instead, he cleared a place for himself on one of the chairs, moving a stack of glossy catalogues to the table. He flipped through one of them. Cosmetic potions, shampoos, perfumes, and soaps; all promising beauty, youth and—since it was Romilda, after all—bewitching your chosen one. Each item popped up from the page, just like Pansy’s catalogue for the underground auction.

“You can smell everything, too,” Romilda said helpfully.

After a moment in the air over the page, a semi-transparent projection of a bottle of cologne she advertised earlier opened, emitting a pleasant scent.

“It’s quite good,” Harry said in surprise. Spicy and woody, much like Severus’s aftershave, mixed with herbs he smelled sometimes after a day of brewing, and a note of musk, just as— “Wait a minute!”

He turned the page, making the projection and the scent disappear. The perfume on the next page promised to ‘ensnare your lover’s senses’, and Harry closed the catalogue for good before any more samples appeared.

“I thought you hid your second storage cabinet under a triple layer of enchantments because ensnaring anyone’s senses was actually illegal.”

“It’s figurative, silly. Quoting none other than your boyfriend,” Romilda said with a wink. “I heard his speech on my second day in Hogwarts and decided then and there to become a Potions Mistress. That’s the real power of marketing.”

“Didn’t smell very figurative to me.”

“Any ensnaring is so diluted it might as well not be there.” She waved him off. “Everything is strictly above the board. The ladies can safely look through the products at their offices, in the Hogwarts common rooms, and at tea with friends.” She perked up suddenly. “Would you like some tea by the way?”

“No!” Harry jerked. He would rather chance another encounter with a charging hippogriff than willingly drink her tea. “No, thank you, Romilda.”

“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug. “Anyway, the ladies. You just need to organise them into a network, and they’ll do all the promotion and sales for you! Isn’t it brilliant?”

Harry cracked the catalogue open again at a random page and stared at the description of the Premium Anti-Acne Solution. Its secret ingredient allegedly guaranteed clear skin for up to a week.

Once puberty hit, Hogwarts students would try every trick in the book to keep the spots away, even boys. Seamus used to brew the Cure for Boils in the bathroom, until the other boys in the dorms put the foot down after the second explosion. To be fair, Seamus could blow up even a cup of tea. But when he kept his temper in check and concentrated on brewing, his skin tone was smoother than any of the girl’s in their year. (And looking back, Harry did notice Seamus’s skin way more than any other girl’s.) The potion itself was from the first-year curriculum, one of the absolute easiest. They brewed it on their first-ever Potions lesson, for Merlin’s sake!

“I remember a boy in our dorm using the Cure for Boils,” he said, voicing his thought aloud. “Won’t it do the trick?”

Romilda looked at him, aghast. “My clients don’t have any boils! They are modern girls and women. When they have any temporary skin problems, they prefer to deal with them using innovative formulas—the formulas that don’t stink like a Quidditch player’s socks!” She managed to deliver all of those in one breath.

“Don’t additives make the potion less effective?”

Harry asked Severus once if the Hangover Cure had to taste like last year’s sauerkraut. Severus worded his reply a little bit differently, though, adding numerous insults to Harry’s intelligence and education. He hadn’t had his own potion that morning yet.

“It’s not like those girls have actual boils.” She gave an overly nonchalant shrug and studied her nails, painted with clear varnish for a change.

“Romilda. Are you saying this is the plain old Cure for Boils?” Harry looked down at the page again suspiciously. The potion in the pretty little bottle cost two galleons, special members-only price, after a discount.

“I’m saying that it’ll cure your pimples.”

“Well, good luck with your business, then,” he said tentatively.

He much preferred Romilda selling overpriced cosmetic products to witches than brewing her usual fare. She knew her craft, so the quality at least should be adequate. That was a double-edged sword, though. She could hardly find making Cure for Boils any more challenging than Severus would. And a bored Romilda meant an experimenting Romilda. Usually with some sort of mind-altering potions. Harry vowed to keep an eye on her lest she decided to turn her client network into mindless Inferi doing her bidding through scented soaps.

“Thank you, Harry.” Romilda brightened. “But I guess you didn’t come to buy my cologne, after all. I’ll offer you a good discount, mind you!”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Harry put the catalogue back on the top of the stack. “I actually wanted to ask you about one of your clients.”

“You aren’t the only one who promises people confidentiality, you know!” Romilda wagged her finger at him. “You also seem to abandon me for the pastures new. Why should I tell you anything?”

“It’s for a very important cause?” Harry offered.

“Tell you what.” Romilda grabbed four catalogues and thrust them at Harry. “Give them to your female friends and colleagues and keep one in your office—no excuses!”

“Deal.” He was going to keep it alright, at the back of his highest shelf. Although he had a sneaking suspicion that Pansy was going to love them.

“So who do you want to know about?”

“Daphne Greengrass.”

“Oh, yes, that one.” Romilda made a face. “I spent half of my savings on hiring her to be in the advertising for Vane—cover and the Witch Weekly centre spread and all—and then had to pull everything off at the last minute. I could hire an assistant and pay them for half a year for that kind of money!” She sniffed, but then cheered up again. “Still, it would be so much worse if she kicked the bucket after starting the campaign.”

“That’s a… very practical way of thinking.” Harry stared at her. That last statement was callous even for Romilda.

“Well, this was the bitch who asked me for a poison to use on Muggles, so excuse me if I don’t feel—”

“What do you mean, poison to use on Muggles?” he interjected, eyes widening. It appeared Daphne’s cruel streak went further than unfaithful fiancés breaking up with her. Very much further, if Romilda wasn’t exaggerating.

“I mean exactly what I said.”

“Did you give it to her?”

“Who do you take me for?” Romilda asked sharply, looking hurt. “I run a reputable business, and I have some morals.”

“I know you do,” Harry said. She did have some principles, however twisted they might be. There were lines Romilda Vane never crossed. “Why did she need it?”

“Hell if I know. I certainly didn’t ask. She acted weird those last couple of weeks.”

“Weird how?”

“Keep ordering more and more Party-Up while missing all the parties. Her friends bitched enough about her not showing up at the clubs. Although I spotted her in the Dark Desires once. Didn’t think it was her scene.”

“Dark Desires?” Harry remembered the leaflet he had found in one of the robes.

“BDSM club. Real BDSM, not the one downstairs.” Romilda snickered. “And then the next day she owled me to order Remembrine, so somebody was apparently Obliviating her.”

“When was that, exactly?”

“Two days before her death.”

“It takes 30 hours to brew, right?” Harry remembered his own experience.

“She came here that evening, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Romilda, straightening the heart-shaped cushion on the sofa. “And I told her to wait for a couple of days for the Party-Up to leave her system. Did the stupid girl drink it right away? Is that why she died?” She bit her lip, dark eyes darting at Harry with worry. She had to suspect that would be the case, but actually hearing the news clearly shook her a little.

He nodded. “It’s not your fault, Romilda.”

“Of course it isn’t.” She glanced away. “I gave her clear instructions. And the quality was top-notch.”

“Did she tell anything about the Obliviation?”

“I wasn’t in the mood for chatting after the previous episode, and she didn’t share. In fact, she looked a bit unhinged, nothing like I ever saw her before. She used to be so composed and smooth-spoken: flawless appearance, flawless manners.”

“Even when asking for poison?” Harry couldn’t help but ask.

“Especially when asking for poison.”

* * *

_Romilda opened the door, letting Daphne Greengrass inside of her living room. It was already cramped with boxes, although nowhere near to the extent it would be in about a month. The curtains were drawn, and the room was lit by to two lamps hovering in the opposite corners as well as the string lights hanging on one of the walls, creating mood lighting and long shadows._

_“The cover is almost ready,” Romilda said._

_“Oh? How is it?”_

_“You look gorgeous there.”_

_“I’m glad you think so.” Daphne inclined her head and smiled. Looking at Romilda from under her long eyelashes, she let her gaze travel from her raspberry-pink eyeliner to the low neckline of her similarly coloured studded robes. She went inside, brushing Romilda casually with her arm._

_Romilda took a small step backwards._

_“Party-Up, as usual? I’ve also got a fresh batch of Euphoria Elixir.”_

_“Oh no, not today.” Daphne shook her head. “Do you have any Infatuation Infusion?”_

_“Sure.” Romilda crossed the room and tapped at the poster of a muggle cartoon witch with black horns in front of a bubbling cauldron. The poster rolled up, revealing a hidden cabinet behind it._

_“I wonder—” Daphne leaned against the wall and studied her perfectly manicured nails._

_“Yes?”_

_“Do you have any other types of potions?”_

_“What kind of potions are we talking about?” Romilda’s hand stilled._

_“Permanent solutions, shall we say.”_

_“Permanent. Solutions.”_

_“Poisons, for example.” Daphne’s expression was carefully inquisitive, as if she wasn’t sure that the shop carried the exact brand of shoes she needed._

_“I don’t deal with that kind of shit.” Romilda turned around sharply._

_“Not for any witch or wizard, if that’s the reason for your caution. Simply something Muggles wouldn’t detect.”_

_“As I said, I don’t deal with that kind of shit. I don’t need any blood on my hands, neither magical nor muggle.”_

_“I didn’t take you for a squeamish type.” Daphne’s eyes hardened. “Not with the kinds of products you have on offer. It would be a shame if the respectable public buying from your catalogue learned about your side business, don’t you think?”_

_Romilda tensed up but quickly recovered. “This is a pathetic blackmail attempt, you know. I get better ones every week.”_

_“Blackmail? Why would you say such a thing?” Daphne laughed musically, straightening an invisible crease on her wide green chiffon trousers. “It was not my intention at all.”_

_“Right.”_

_“My Infusion?”_

_With a last dubious glance at her direction, Romilda returned to the cabinet. Her hand hovered over a pink vial before she took another one, seemingly identical, from the back. She tore off the label ‘Experimental: 6 mg heliotr. / + 3 stirs c.c. after ashw. egg. Fail.’ and turned to Daphne with a smile as genuine as the emotions her potions created. “That would be thirteen galleons.”_

Harry emerged from the Pensieve in his office, put the memory back into the vial, and sent it to the shelf next to the Goldstein’s one. Romilda was offended at first, but shared it readily enough once he assured her he believed her even without it.

He uncorked another vial and poured the second memory into the stone basin.

_This time, the Daphne in the living room— with perhaps a bit more boxes in the corner—had none of the poise from before. Her robes and hair were as immaculate as ever, but her eyes hid the cornered expression of a person at the end of their rope._

_“Is it ready?” She asked, reaching to her hair and then jerking her hand back abruptly._

_Romilda appeared with a vial of a dark purple liquid. “Don’t drink it right now. You need to detox and stay away from any uppers for at least three days before you do. Nothing, not even regular Pepper-Up. Do you understand?”_

_“No Party-Up, I’ve got it. Now give it to me.”_

_“Are you on any other potions?”_

_“No, no.” Daphne snatched the vial and hid it in her purse._

_“It’s very important. Interaction with the wrong ingredient will fry your brain up.”_

_Daphne fished two handfuls of galleons and threw them on the mantelpiece without even counting. Her eyes shining with purpose, full of nervous, almost manic energy. She looked ready to say something, but reconsidered, leaving the flat with a nod that seemed like an afterthought. Heels clacking rapidly, she disappeared downstairs. Standing in the doorway, Romilda watched her go with a doubtful expression._

Harry left the Pensieve for the second time deep in thought. Daphne wasn’t very concerned about the prospect of murdering someone, was she? Or at least concealed her emotions well. Did she go through with the deed, with poison or some other means? According to Romilda, the first memory took place ten days before her death. That meant after the Gringotts transaction but before the break-up with Goldstein. Plenty of time in her disposal, although she didn’t seem in a particular hurry.

Having banished the second memory as well, Harry flopped in his swivel chair and took a forceful spin. How was he supposed to find a possibly dead Muggle with uncertain connection to Daphne Greengrass?


	12. Chapter 12

Restless after Romilda’s revelations, Harry was itching to brainstorm. Pansy, however, point-blank refused to appear in the office before midday, grumbling over the communication mirror about having to work on Saturday at all. Taking pity on him, Severus volunteered at breakfast to watch the memories together.

Harry’s appreciation of his lover’s helpfulness was short-lived. He didn’t get much insight, at least not of the kind he was hoping for. Once inside the Pensieve, Severus was more interested in the contents of Romilda’s potions cabinet than the two women’s interaction.

“So _that’s_ what she was trying to do with that Infusion,” he muttered under his breath. Waving his hand carelessly, he stopped the memory and stared at the failed experimental potion in Romilda’s hand. “Adding heliotrope… Ingenious, I must admit.”

His long index finger came up, drawing the line along his lower lip in a subconscious gesture. Harry’s eyes followed its movement, thoughts shifting from Daphne and potions to more pleasurable realms.

“Those counterclockwise stirs wouldn’t be enough to balance it, though,” Severus said, deep in thought. “She’d need to add another stir after every ingredient from that stage on and maybe fiddle with the brewing time… Yes, it would definitely need another ten to fifteen minutes of simmering.”

“If you say so.”

Severus turned to him, his eyes shining. “This would make the potion release an odour that mimics the environment instead of whatever smell each person around the wearer finds pleasing. It wouldn’t be different for everybody anymore, nor would it remind you about other people you’re attracted to,” he said with a rare animated expression he reserved for stubborn potion- and curse-related puzzles. “Just think about it, a potion that is virtually undetectable!”

“Fascinating. Please don’t share this with Romilda.”

“Why would I?” Severus looked baffled at the idea. “The girl must learn to use her own head. Every potioneer worth his or her salt has to go through trial and error.”

“That wasn’t what I meant. Undetectable infatuation potion sounds horrible.” Especially in the hands of Romilda Vane.

“I suppose,” said Severus. His expression was a bit like Teddy’s when Andromeda took away his broom for flying inside again: admitting he was wrong but planning a sneakier repeat performance already.

“Don’t even think about it,” Harry said firmly.

“It doesn’t have to be a love potion, though. You can apply the basic principle of this odour mimicry to a number of other formulas.” The glint returned to his eyes twofold.

“Severus. Did you ask me to see the memories only to spy on Romilda’s trade secrets?”

“Yes.” Severus didn’t even try to deny anything. At Harry’s accusing stare, he elaborated. “Vane was one of my most promising students. Naturally, I’m curious what she’s up to.”

“Severus Snape, complimenting a Gryffindor.”

“I do give credit where credit is due.” He sounded only a little bit pained. “Although I still maintain she should have been in my house. Do you know what her graduation project for her Mastery was? Improving the Suggestion Solution formula to the strength of the Imperius Curse!”

“She offered me some, but I refused. Even before the Ministry banned it.”

Pansy had said he was an idiot, but Harry wasn’t going to go around using the equivalent of an Unforgivable on people.

“Yes, I guess you would,” Severus said. The words were obviously meant to sound sarcastic but came out as fond.

As soon as they found themselves back in the office after watching the second memory ( _Adequately brewed Remembrine. Right colour and viscosity, no flaky residue_ ), Severus headed to the floo.

“Going to the Malfoys already?” Harry asked regretfully. The day after deciding to pay them a visit, Severus had received another invitation to the Manor. A stroke of luck, truly. Good or bad, they were undecided. “Say hi to Narcissa and something nasty to Lucius for me.”

Just as Severus was reaching for floo powder, the smouldering embers erupted in green. He took a step back.

Laden with colourful bags, Pansy swanned out of the fireplace. The bob that framed her face since she was twelve was nowhere to be seen. Instead, she sported a pixie cut, shorter than Harry’s own hair. He didn’t usually pay much attention to things like hairstyles unless it was for a case, but Pansy’s face, open and almost naked without the fringe she used to hide her eyes behind, screamed to be noticed.

“New look?” asked Harry, recovering from surprise. “It suits you.” And in a strange way, it did, despite its unfamiliarity.

“It does, doesn’t it? Very French.” She gave her hair a casual stroke.

Her eyes met with Severus’s, and they exchanged indecipherable looks.

“Parkinson.” With a nod in her direction, Severus stepped into the fireplace. He stated his destination matter-of-factly instead of shouting it, as Harry had always done since his very first, unfortunate floo journey.

“Do I need to brace myself for a cold war here?” Harry asked after Severus’s back disappeared in the fire.

“Hm?” Pansy busied herself with her bags.

“You and Severus.”

She looked up from the robe in her hands with a slight furrow of her brow. “Oh, that. No, we’re good. Had a little Arseholes Anonymous session yesterday, and now we’re better than ever.”

“Right.” Harry hoped it was true.

“Now, where are those memories you wanted to show me?”

Pansy watched Romilda’s memories, commented scathingly on her appearance, hoarded every last one of her catalogues, scolding Harry for not taking the free samples, and watched the memories again.

“Wizarding fashion industry in the Continent is tangled with the muggle one. Many designers work in both worlds, not to mention the models, make-up artists and such. And even those who don’t keep up with trends and events,” she said emerging from the Pensieve for the second time. “If Daphne was going to attend Fashion Week in Milan, she would definitely be in contact with some Muggles.”

“It’s a start,” Harry said thoughtfully. No matter how far-fetched, it was better than nothing.

Coming over to the case board, he studied Daphne’s invitations to different events in Milan, press card from the wireless, and her hotel reservation. A picture of Daphne and the same elegantly clad woman, now sporting a purple silk turban, caught his sight. The colour if not the shape made him shudder. He knew he was being unfair: many wizarding and muggle cultures favoured elaborate headpieces, and the woman bore no resemblance to his first Defence Professor whatsoever, but he still half-expected Voldemort’s face lurking in wait underneath.

“We need to find out who this other woman from the photo is,” he said. “She keeps cropping up. Inscription says she’s going to meet Daphne in Milan, so there’s a high chance she’s there right now.” He tapped his wand over the photo, duplicating it, and pocketed the copy.

“Shouldn’t be too difficult. She certainly stands out,” Pansy said, coming behind him. “Need me to book you into a hotel?”

“Yes, please. I’ll pop there tomorrow.”

“This short in the middle of Fashion Week will cost you a big galleon, unless you don’t mind a bunk in a wizarding tent full of hitchflying Beuxbatons students. Which, knowing you, The-Boy-Who-Still-Wears-His-First-Weasley-Jumper, you probably don’t.”

“No tents! Had enough of those for my lifetime,” Harry protested, spinning around to face her. “In fact, I thought I could splurge. Find something nice, even if it’s—”

“Splurge? On yourself?” Pansy raised her eyebrows. “Who are you and in which trunk do you keep the real Harry Potter?”

“I was going to ask Severus to come with me.” Harry felt his ears heat up.

“Say no more. Everything for our lover boy.”

“Within reason!” Watching Pansy’s eyes twinkle, he suddenly doubted his decision to give her a free hand.

“It’ll be tickety-boo.” Pansy waved him off.

Harry watched her shrink her shopping bags and summon her ‘work robe’—a long sage-green cardigan no one would blink twice at both sides of the Leaky cauldron. She studied it critically.

“Some brat grazed me with his Frisbee on Diagon the other day. I thought for sure the sleeve was torn.”

“With the number of enchantments you have on it, I doubt even a muggle bullet will manage to do that,” Harry said. “Why do you need it anyway? This new job for Parvati?”

“I wish. I’ll get to it, but first I need to make a clandestine visit to the Jiggers. I’m sure he has all kinds of paraphernalia from that Lodge of yours he thinks he is hiding well.”

“It’s not mine!”

“You’d better hope I find something worthwhile, or it’ll be yours whether you want it or not.”

“Good luck, then.” Harry had no desire to go back there, especially on his birthday. “And I’ll go check with Benedict if he knows who this woman from the photo is.”

With a last look to Pansy’s boyish hair, he left the office and raised his wand to apparate. The video rental shop in the neighbouring building was up for sale; the third time since P&P had opened here. Bracing himself for the familiar gut-wrenching sensation of apparition, Harry felt a pang of guilt: their enchantments masking the building and its traffic from curious muggle stares must have been to blame. They were careful not to extend the blind spot further than the porch and the pavement around it, but magic must have bled through. Or maybe the owners simply weren’t business-savvy enough. He used to rent their videotapes every once in a while, but most muggles seemed to switch to DVDs lately. He himself stubbornly refused to keep up with the technology; he had enough trouble charming _one_ video player to work in Grimmauld Place, thank you very much. All the efforts and Arthur’s instructions, and it still tried to show him _Clue_ instead of every other film he put on.

As Harry entered Daphne's house, the door of the groundfloor flat opened, and a woman in a simple grey robe appeared. Spotting him, she faltered in her step. “Harry Potter?”

He wondered if she was startled to see Harry the celebrity or Potter the detective on the case.

“I didn't know any other witches or wizards lived here,” he said.

“Oh, no. There’s not a spark of magic in me, I’m afraid.” The mirth in the woman’s laugh didn't quite touch her shadowed eyes. “But I do need to drop by Diagon occasionally, hence the robe.”

“I’ve been investigating the circumstances of your neighbour’s death. Could you spare a few minutes for me?”

The woman checked her wristwatch. “I’m on a rather tight schedule, but I can answer a few questions, I suppose.”

“It won’t take long. I just wanted to know if you’ve seen anyone coming to Daphne’s flat, in the month before and after her death.”

“She didn’t receive many people. Granted, I’m not here during weekdays much, but I’ve only seen a handful of visitors, and none recently,” she said, a frown creasing her forehead. “The only ones I’ve seen after her death were you, actually, with two other people, a man and a woman.”

“And before?” Harry prompted.

“I’ve seen her fiancé once a week before, but that’s it.”

“You recognised Daphne’s fiancé?” But not her sister.

“She introduced us two years ago, when he was more of a fixture here,” she said with a fleeting curl of her lip. “We never exchanged much more than pleasantries—moving in different worlds and all that—but even I could see something was not going well in her life those last months.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just a general feeling. She seemed upset and distracted more often than not when we bumped into each other at the door.” Sadness clouded the woman’s features for a moment before she looked at her watch again.

“Thank you for your help,” Harry said, stepping aside to let her through.

With a nod in Harry’s direction, the woman passed him with a regal gait, usually found in some of the more stuck-up purebloods.

A thought flashed through his mind. “How are you going to get to Diagon Alley?”

Kensington was just a couple of stations away from Charing Cross Road, and you could theoretically get there by foot in about an hour, but walking or riding underground in a robe would draw some glances. While many wizards would be unbothered, a squib should definitely know that.

“My family was kind enough to make me a portkey for when I go there,” she said without turning around.

He watched the door close behind her, undecided what to think about the encounter. It stood to reason that the squib neighbour wouldn’t have had much in common with the popular witch next door, but alarm bells kept ringing in his head. Filing this feeling for later, Harry shook his head and went upstairs.

The hall greeted him with familiar bareness as he let himself in. Daphne’s purse was still there, as if waiting for the owner to come and grab it. There was not a speck of dust still, making Harry wonder again if there was a handy charm to ensure that, or the Greengrasses simply sent a house-elf to clean the flat.

When Harry entered the living room, the portrait on the mantelpiece was empty.

“Benedict!” Harry knocked at the gilded frame, unsure if it would work.

“Coming!” The voice came from inside the painting. Its inhabitant appeared a moment later, his wig slightly askew.

“Hello, Benedict.”

“Good morning, Harry. Please excuse me for being not on my watch; I assure you I was absent but for a moment. There is quite a stir among the portraits in the Manor. Ambrose Greengrass, my rather hot-headed great-granduncle, challenged the portrait of his younger brother Edmund to a duel.”

“Oh?”

“Apparently, his wife has been spending too much time with Edmund, who happened to be her second husband. He consoled her rather quickly after Ambrose got himself killed in a pub brawl in Hogsmead,” Benedict explained, producing a hand-mirror from his embroidered waistcoat and adjusting his wig with a practised motion. “The two brothers bicker over dear Isabell constantly, and resort to violence every five or ten years.”

“And what is the wife herself thinking about that?” Harry couldn’t help but ask, perching himself on the arm-rest of the sofa. The portraits’ life in the Greengrass Manor seemed to have more drama than daytime television.

“Isabell prefers to weather out storms at her portrait at the Longbottoms. Her third husband was from that family.”

“Out of curiosity, how many husbands did she have?”

“Five. Well, six, if you want to count the incident with the vicar, but everybody agrees that it’s one of those things better left unmentioned.”

“Right.”

Benedict examined his profile critically. Satisfied with the reflection, he put the mirror away.

Harry produced a photo from his pocket. "Say, Benedict, did Daphne mention a woman named Eleni that she was going to meet in Milan? I've got the impression that they were friends."

He stood up and showed the picture to the portrait.

“Hmm, let me think. It must be that editor of the fashion magazine. Daphne was quite enamoured with her. Some Greek family name.”

Harry looked through the pile of publications at the coffee table, the same ones Daphne had once hidden Magic Moste Evile in. He found what he'd been looking for in the French wizarding edition of Vogue.

“Eleni Aspraki,” he read the name out loud. “Editor-in-chief.”

“Daphne hinted at some scandalous secret this witch had,” Benedict said conspiratorially. “But never elaborated what it was.” He pouted at being denied a piece of gossip.

“Were they close?”

“They would meet often when Daphne went to the Continent."

“Has she ever come here to England?”

“Not to my knowledge. Surely Daphne would have mentioned it.”

Harry flipped through the magazine. His meagre French vocabulary, composed of a couple of words and phrases he picked up from Victoire and Fleur—who would swear like sailor when faced with a particularly stubborn curse—was not enough to understand the articles. On the cover, a woman in a strapless red dress was arching her back, hands on her hips, and the pages were full of models, clothes, and accessories. Every photo was beautiful, polished, and worlds away from Harry.

The bloke from the perfume ad was fit, he supposed. Dark-haired, with a long face and a Roman nose, he reminded Harry of Severus. The model’s hooded eyes aimed for sultry but lacked the coiled intensity that always lurked in the depths of Severus’s gaze, coming across as lethargic instead. Harry shut the magazine and stuffed it in his bottomless pocket. He much preferred his lover with all his imperfections to this man with his perfect hair and skin from the glossy page. Although putting Severus into a smart suit like that was an avenue worth exploring indeed.

On his way from the flat, Harry caught sight of a car parked nearby. Daphne’s neighbour was sitting inside, not nearly in as much of a hurry as she had led Harry to believe. Clearly distraught, she hit the steering wheel with her palm and run her hand across her face. As Harry contemplated going over and asking if everything was fine, she started the engine and drove away. He watched the car disappear around the corner before raising his wand and disapparating.

Once in his office, he found some nice creamy parchment from Pansy’s stock and composed a quick letter to one Eleni Aspraki requesting a meeting. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to wait for long. Although, if Severus agreed to come with him—and Harry was going to ensure that he did—they would find ways to occupy the waiting time with. He wondered if it was too selfish of him to look forward to a holiday in Italy in the middle of the case.

“Ready to fly overseas, boy?” he asked Moonshine, tying the scroll to his outstretched leg.

The owl hooted, indignant that Harry could doubt his abilities.

When Moonshine shrunk to a dot high in the sky, Harry fished the surveillance ball from the drawer of his desk. Turning it on, he was greeted with the sight of Malfoy managing his own correspondence. A large barn owl was perched on the window, while Malfoy was reading a letter. From that point of view, Harry could not see his face, but his movements were jerky.

Malfoy must have heard some sound too low to be registered by the ball, because he spun around, thrust the letter into the pocket of his robe, and shooed the owl away. Pasting an innocent expression on his pointy face, he stepped away from the window and greeted Astoria, who entered the room, with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying the story!


	13. Chapter 13

“Send my kindest regards to your parents,” Malfoy said with an expression that used to be reserved for when the rubies in the Gryffindor hourglass exceeded the emeralds at the end of the school year. He flopped down on the couch, throwing his hand over the back.

“They’ll warm up to you,” Astoria said, settling next to him on the edge of the seat and crossing her ankles. She briefly cupped his cheek with her palm. “They will when they see what a great person you really are.”

Leaning into it, Malfoy still sent her a dubious glance.

Harry, who was watching the conversation in the surveillance ball, couldn’t help but share his doubts, likely for very different reasons.

“Besides,” her tone was carefully even. “They have no choice but to change their attitude now that Daphne is gone.”

“They’ve always put you down. You deserve so much more than unfair comparisons to your sister.”

“It’s a moot point now.”

Harry noticed that she didn’t protest.

“I’ll bring up rescheduling the wedding today,” she said instead.

“If you don’t think it’s too soon. I’m ready to claim you as my wife tomorrow; just say the word.”

Astoria smiled at him. “You’re so sweet, Draco darling. If I leave it be, they’d be happy to postpone forever.” Her forehead creased. “I expect them to go back on their threats, but that’s a conversation for another day.”

“I can provide for your every need,” Malfoy exclaimed hotly, leaning forward to take her hand into his.

“You know I earn enough,” she said, shaking her head. “But the Academy desperately needs more funding, and the tuition is high enough already. Father is buying another prize-winning Abraxan. We could hire another teacher and restock our children’s brooms for half its price!”

“I’ll ask my Father—”

“No,” Astoria interrupted. She sat up straighter, her voice firm. “I’ve never asked for donations from my own parents, and we’re definitely not going to ask yours. I just want to have my vault back, but I will not beg for it either. We get by perfectly well on our own.”

“We do.” Malfoy squeezed her hand. His face was soft and adoring, an expression he would never let Harry see.

The grandfather’s clock in the corner struck two.

“Look at the time! I’d better hurry,” she said. “You’re meeting with your parents today too, right?”

“I am. There are some business matters I need to discuss with Father.”

Harry perked up. Narcissa’s letter to Severus mentioned that her ‘dear boy’ had a ‘misunderstanding’ with Lucius and was absent at the last few Saturday lunches. He wasn’t scheduled to appear at the Manor that day, that’s for certain.

“Good luck, then.” Astoria pecked Malfoy on his lips and made to get up.

He didn’t let her, bringing her closer for a proper kiss. “You too.”

As soon as the fire died behind her, Malfoy’s relaxed countenance shifted. Leaping to his feet, he rushed to the bookshelves, and directly under the surveillance globe now, Harry could see only the top of his blond head. Several tomes were thrown on the floor with a loud thud. Finally, Malfoy took a step back, a book-shaped package in his hands.

Harry’s nose was almost touching the ball right now. The size and thickness were approximately the same as Magic Moste Evile. Could it be—?

Malfoy summoned a briefcase and stuffed the package inside. With muffled curses, he rearranged the shelf as it was before, straightened himself up, and headed for the hall.

Pulling his Invisibility Cloak from his pocket, Harry rushed to the door.

“If anyone asks, I’m off to stalk Malfoy!” he shouted before putting silencing charms on himself. Despite it being Saturday, Dennis was in the lab, stirring the potion they needed to retrieve Harry’s feline namesake who was still stuck in the mirror.

“Haven’t you left that phase of your life behind?” Dennis shouted back.

Judging by the smart-mouthed retort, sweet Dennis had been spending too much time in Severus’s company lately. Unfortunately, Harry didn’t have the time to lift the spells and bicker. Instead, he ran outside and apparated to Falmouth.

He appeared at the familiar building on the steep embankment, breathing in the salty air. For a minute, the street was empty save for a large seagull cleaning its feathers on the bend of a drainpipe. A door beside it opened with a creak, and Malfoy hurried out, spooking the bird. Instead of flying away, the seagull dove at his head.

Malfoy shrieked, ducking and flapping his arms. “Blasted bird! I’ll get you this time!”

Taking advantage of the spells masking the sound, Harry snickered.

It seemed this wasn’t their first encounter. Malfoy fumbled for his wand and fired a stunner, but missed by a wide margin. With a loud screech that sounded disturbingly like a laugh, the seagull flew away.

Harry tsked. Magic where Muggles could see it! He had his own wand out, ready to latch onto Malfoy as he apparated, but Malfoy headed purposefully down the street instead. Eyeing his black ankle-length robe dubiously, Harry followed.

As they turned around the corner, Malfoy pulled his hood up, earning himself curious glances from a boy on his bike and an old lady walking on the other side of the street. He was aiming for stealth but stood out like an Erumpent amongst a herd of unicorns. Idiot. Without the hood, he could at least pass as a priest.

Oblivious to the stares, Malfoy zigzagged past houses and shops, veering away from the cars and people in groups larger than two. On each crossroad, he shuffled from foot to foot, craning his head, until he mustered up the nerve to go forward. He waited for another passerby for a full minute at a crosswalk once, rattled by a fish truck. As soon as the woman with a pram set her foot on the first white line, he swaggered closely behind. The woman hastened her steps.

Torn between amusement and incredulity, Harry matched his pace to Malfoy’s erratic pattern. The expression on Malfoy’s face, half-covered with the hood, was that of barely concealed panic. Harry could almost feel sympathy for him. Almost.

A couple more turns and road scares later, they found themselves at the docks. Malfoy visibly braced himself at the whir of the machinery but kept walking. Stopping at a nondescript warehouse that Harry barely noticed at first, he took out his wand and muttered something. Instantly, Harry’s eyes stopped trying to skip it, at least by the force of magic. It was still a boring grey box from a row of identical grey boxes.

What was Malfoy doing in a place more Muggle than Privet Drive?

Malfoy opened the steel door and went inside, lowering his hood. Harry slipped in, close on his heels. The door closed behind them, cutting off the low buzz of the dock outside. Suddenly plunged into silence, Harry felt the surrounding darkness all the more acutely. The only source of light was a tiny peephole of a window under the ceiling, almost useless in doing its job.

Malfoy, a vague shadow in front of Harry, waved his wand. “Lumos!”

The light of a dozen candles springing into the air illuminated the room. Harry looked around curiously.

The inside of the warehouse was a cross between an office, a production shop, and a torture chamber. Stacks of parchment and paper filled the shelves along the walls, and an enormous swatch made of paper strips of every colour imaginable lay fanned on the table. A seven-feet-tall iron maiden stood in the middle, a twin to the one Harry had vanished from the attic of Grimmauld Place years ago.

Malfoy put the package on the desk standing at the far wall. The oak of the desk and the expensive leather chair contrasted starkly with the grey unfinished walls and PVC table and shelves on the other side of the ancient contraption. With a critical look, he rearranged the stationery. The desk was a clean and orderly oasis amidst the disarray surrounding it.

A knock at the door had Malfoy hurrying over to crack it open a sliver, wincing at the noise of a ship horn rushing in.

“Password?” he asked.

“You know it’s me, Draco. Who else can it be?” Romilda Vane brushed past, letting herself inside.

Harry’s eyebrows rose. She was another person he wouldn’t expect to see in a place like this, especially in the present company. Unlike Malfoy, she knew how to dress Muggle, although her Dr. Martens and spikey leather jacket—wherever did she find one in pink?—commanded attention just the same.

She smiled brightly. “How is work going?”

“Everything’s ready,” Malfoy said, moving over to the desk.

Harry stepped forward from the wall he had been standing at, as close as he dared. With bated breath, he waited for Malfoy to take the package and rip the wrapping paper open.

To his disappointment, the missing Dark Arts book was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the package contained no books at all, but blank sheets of glossy white paper. Why would Malfoy go to such lengths to hide those?

Malfoy went to the iron maiden and threw the rusty door open. Instead of a tortured Muggle, it housed a Frankenstein monster made of several Muggle office appliances. Harry recognised the shape of a scanner standing on top of a printer half-stripped of its housing. From the inside of the door, a laptop screen was fitted amongst the stumps of unevenly broken-off spikes. A single wire was coming out of it to the printer, connected to who knew what. The keyboard from the same laptop sprung from the top of the scanner and hovered in the air, its keys rearranged in alphabetical order. Four pipes were coming out of the insides, submerged into big potion bottles with red, blue and yellow opaque liquid and a distillation cube filled with black.

The screen came to life, showing a cover of Romilda’s catalogue. Malfoy waved his wand, and the picture changed to the first and the last pages.

“How many do you need?” he asked, feeding the paper into an opening at the side.

“Thirty more. They’re going like hot cakes!”

He pushed some buttons and pulled down a metal lever sticking at the side. The contraption rumbled and puffed like a giant boiling kettle, the glassware rattling at the bottom. For one moment, Harry expected it to break down into a pile of metal and plastic. Instead, it spewed a printed page into a tray that flew over.

“We must start on the autumn edition soon. I’ve got so many ideas!” Romilda chirped.

She reached to take the sheet, but Malfoy stopped her. “Don’t interrupt the process.”

The cover of the scanner flew up, and the sheet jumped onto the glossy surface. A line of light went underneath, and an animated projection of Romilda’s logo and the name VANE sprung up for a moment before returning to the page. The sheet flew to the table, while the machine was already repeating the process with another page.

“Oh, you automated it since the last time!”

“I’ve put more enchantments, yes,” Malfoy said smugly. “The scents still have to be added manually, but for everything else, you just need to enter the parameters.”

“It’s incredible!” Romilda exclaimed, watching as the first catalogue assembled itself.

Grudgingly, Harry had to agree.

“I don’t understand why all this subterfuge,” she said. “You could open your own shop and have much more clients that way; not only me and shady auctions. The printing house on Diagon can’t hold a candle to what you do.”

“Malfoys don’t work in shops.” Malfoy raised his chin.

Romilda looked as if she was about to say something, but then shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Well, if you need more clients, _Dark Desires_ want new flyers and a banner for their swinger night.”

Malfoy spluttered, ears red.

“Seriously, Draco, you’re such a prude,” Romilda said.

“Just because I’m not comfortable with flaunting what should—”

“Prude.”

“Well, you can give them my contacts. But don’t mention my name!”

Malfoy pulled out the chair from the desk and brought it to the worktable. Conjuring a bubble-head charm, he arranged the rack with the test tubes Romilda had produced from her backpack. For the next two hours, he was charming the scented pages of the newly printed catalogues, putting the spells on them and adding the samples with a dropper. Romilda sat opposite him and was going about every product, honing her advertisement skills, but Malfoy tuned her out.

After the first ten minutes, Harry did the same, sliding down the wall to sit on the concrete floor. It was hard and cold, but Harry couldn’t risk any heating or cushioning charms on the off-chance Romilda noticed. She had always had a keen eye for details like that; a requirement for her job.

Malfoy himself was completely absorbed in his spellcasting. His movements were firm and precise, the expression on his face focused. Harry watched him work with a newfound respect, wondering how differently things could have gone if Malfoy had been encouraged to pursue his magical talents instead of having been convinced of his blood’s superiority by his family.

Speaking of the Malfoy family; Severus was probably being served roasted pheasants in the Manor right now. Harry’s stomach grumbled pitifully. The closest thing to edible in his pocket was a Chocolate Frog wrapper.

“I brought a little something to liven this dreary place up a bit,” Romilda said after Malfoy laid the last catalogue aside. She handed him an aromatic lamp with the flower logo of her products. “From my newest collection!”

“Thank you.” Malfoy eyed the lamp with suspicion. If he had an ounce of common sense, he would vanish the thing as soon as she was out of the door.

“You can have some samples too.” Romilda rummaged in her backpack.

“There’s no need.”

“Oh, but there is!” She took out a handful of tiny packages. “I’m building brand awareness.”

Romilda shrunk the stacks of the catalogues and put them into her backpack, leaving Malfoy with a hefty sum of galleons instead. As she opened the door to leave, Harry slipped through it, blinking at the bright sunlight assaulting his eyes.

“Don’t apparate until you’re out of the docks!” Malfoy instructed Romilda as she stepped outside.

Romilda shook her head, muttering something about paranoid sods.

“I heard that!” Malfoy shouted before shutting the door.

She dutifully turned around the corner before disappearing with a loud pop, drowned by the sounds of ship horns and the clanging of metal. After a moment, Harry followed suit.

Grimmauld Place greeted Harry with a spidery potted plant in the hall and Kreacher’s grumbling.

“Master’s nosy lover is making foreign food again. What is wrong with traditional British recipes? Oh, it’s a good thing Mistress is already dead, for she’d surely come to an early grave if she saw the kitchen desecrated so!”

“Hello, Kreacher. Severus is home already, I take it?” Harry asked, narrowly avoiding a collision with the new green addition in the semi-darkness. The plant hopped out of the pot and hid behind it, its long thin leaves trembling in indignation.

“Kreacher was barred from the kitchen again,” the elf said. “Kreacher will go clean the attic where Kreacher cannot smell this insult to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.”

With that, he snapped his gnarly fingers and disappeared before Harry could get a word in.

At the kitchen table, Severus was scribbling in his potions magazine. Entire paragraphs were furiously scratched out with red ink.

“Somebody’s getting a T?” Harry asked, flopping on the opposite chair with a grin.

“Belby is in St. Mungo’s still, so they gave his regular column to some imbecile who wouldn’t know a cauldron from a chamberpot.”

Harry inhaled the spicy aroma coming from the oven. “M-mm, smells heavenly.”

“Narcissa is on a cucumber diet. It’s all the rage in France, apparently.” Severus’s face showed his exact opinion on that. “I must have some proper food after those tiny cucumber sandwiches. And cucumber water.”

“Lucius too?”

“He’s resigned to his fate. By that I mean he slips firewhiskey in his water and sneaks into the kitchen at night.”

“I’d say I feel bad for you, but I’m already thankful to Narcissa.” Harry’s mouth watered at the smell of spicy chicken. “How are the Malfoys? Other than eating their greens?”

“It seems their finances took a much bigger blow after the war than they want everybody to believe.”

“Bribes aren’t cheap.”

“Indeed,” Severus said, closing the magazine. “This is the reason they aren’t as happy with Draco’s engagement to Miss Greengrass as they would otherwise be.”

“They know she isn’t getting any money.”

“Narcissa tried to be circumspect on the issue, but yes. Meanwhile, Lucius despairs over Draco’s lack of business acumen.”

“Oh?” Harry asked, thinking about Malfoy’s printing shop.

“He wishes for Draco to learn the ropes and be the face of the family’s business operations in the meantime,” said Severus. “Draco, however, is set on pursuing his own projects, without going into the details of what those projects actually are. Lucius fears that with the Greengrasses cutting off Astoria, Draco will follow Arthur Weasley’s footsteps.”

Harry burst into laughter. “If only he knew how close he is to the truth!”

This earned him a questioning look.

“I’ve been following Malfoy today.”

“Did you?” Severus raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“He was acting suspiciously,” Harry defended. “Sneaking with weird packages behind Astoria’s back.”

“With some nefarious agenda, I’m sure.”

“Actually, not this time.” Harry laughed again. “Although for Malfoy, admitting that he fiddles with Muggle technology is sure to be a much bigger reason for shame.”

“Draco? Fiddles with Muggle technology?” Severus was understandably sceptical.

With a grin, Harry launched into recounting the events of the day.

“Draco has always been good with enchanting and magical artefacts, I suppose,” Severus said, his expression pensive.

Harry nodded, remembering the vanishing cabinet.

“I hope he’ll be able to come out of his father’s shadow, even if he chose a certainly... unconventional approach to do so.” Severus stood up and opened the oven, taking out a roasting tray with fragrant Indian-style chicken and vegetables.

Harry laid the table and summoned the wine—correct one, judging by Severus’s approving look. Between Pansy and Severus, he found himself in possession of much more wine knowledge than he was aware of consciously learning. Before, he could distinguish between ‘sweet’, ‘sour,’ and ‘bubbly’. Now, he could read the word Beaujolais correctly on his first try, and just the other week, he shocked Ron and himself by suggesting some Riesling to go with the curry.

“Is that plant in the hall from Narcissa, too?” he asked.

“Yes. One of the few magical ones I cannot use as a potions ingredient,” Severus grumbled. “Brought them from their holiday in France with us—me in mind, she said.”

There seemed to be much more to that conversation, but Severus was disinclined to share, and Harry didn’t press.

“Speaking of,” he said instead.

“Plants?”

“Holidays.” Harry helped himself to a generous serving. “We deserve a little break, don’t we? I’ve always wanted to go to Italy. How about we skip across to Milan for a couple of days tomorrow?”

Severus narrowed his eyes at him, his fork stilling. “Italy. In the middle of your case. Wasn’t it today you’ve been dying to know what poor muggle Daphne Greengrass poisoned?”

“Nothing’s to say we can’t get two Fwoopers with one stone.” Harry had read that one in The Prophet last week and had been waiting ever since for an opportunity to use it. He kept a straight face. Whenever he threw in the odd magical idiom, Severus looked at him as if he was a familiar potion ingredient that gave a completely unexpected reaction. Laughing now would give the game away, and Harry still had four more waiting in his arsenal. It would be a shame if he couldn’t use them.

“What is the first… Fwooper, exactly?”

“We might have to attend a fashion show or two. Or, I’ll do the shows, and you can browse some bookshops and apothecaries,” Harry hastily added at Severus’s expression. “I’m sure they have great ones there.”

For a moment, Severus looked like he was about to refuse, and Harry assumed his best puppy-eyed look. Everybody—from Hermione, back when he had asked to copy her homework at school, to Pansy to Severus—claimed that it was ridiculous and rather pathetic. Harry would be the first one to admit its pitifulness but never mentioned to them how well it actually worked.

“Very well,” Severus said at last. “I don’t have any urgent brewing right now. Milan it is. But I’m not coming near any kinds of runways.”

“They don’t deserve the true fashion icon of our generation anyway,” Harry shot out before ducking his head and stuffing a piece of chicken in his mouth.


	14. Chapter 14

Exiting out of the fireplace, Harry and Severus found themselves in a lobby filled with lush greenery. Lighting, warm and understated, created an atmosphere of a summer evening in the Mediterranean garden. When Pansy had mentioned earlier that the hotel was big—and expensive—enough to have its own international floo connection, Harry imagined grand staircases, chandeliers, marble and gold: everything that still unearthed the boy wearing broken glasses and Dudley’s rags in him, no matter how much money he had in his bank account. And for all that Severus commanded any room he entered, from a small lab to the Great Hall, Harry suspected he could sympathise. But it seemed Pansy knew their tastes well enough.

“Welcome to Castello Magico Milano!” Blaise Zabini appeared at the arched entrance, smiling at them as if they were his long-lost siblings. “Potter, Professor.”

“Mr. Zabini." Severus inclined his head. "I didn’t know you worked in hospitality.”

“Family business," said Zabini. After a short exchange in Italian with the woman at the reception, he took a key to the room and led them to the second floor by carpeted stairs. “We’re usually booked out months in advance this time of the year, but for Pansy and you, Professor, our door is always open.” He turned to Harry. “And you, Potter. I hope you’ll find out what happened to Daphne. Her death came as a shock.”

“You were friends?” Harry asked.

“Not as close as we should have been. Life’s too fast, and we always believe there will be time to catch up tomorrow, next month, next year. I’ve seen her in passing in Rome half a year ago, and she was to stay here this week. Alas—” Zabini shook his head, a world-weary but graceful gesture of a man fully aware of his attractiveness. “A sad lesson to us all.”

Harry wondered whether he had always been prone to pontificating or if it was a recent development. Since it was by far the longest conversation they had ever had (the second after asking Zabini to pass a Charms textbook in the library once), he had no point of reference.

They reached the door at the end of the corridor, half-hidden with more plants. With a brief assessing look at them, Zabini duplicated the key with a quick _Gemino_ and handed them both a copy. “Enjoy your stay!”

The room turned out to be a honeymoon suite overlooking the city skyline from a much higher point than their floor should allow. Before he could ask Severus’s opinion on whether the castle below them was muggle or magical, there was a bang on the door.

Barely waiting for Harry to open the door wide enough, Moonshine burst inside, a piece of parchment tied to his leg. A house-elf in a crisp-white uniform hurried down the corridor to them, wriggling his arms.

“Poldo is very sorry!” he cried in accented English. “We never disturb our guests like that! We always take letters from the owls and deliver the post ourselves.”

“It’s fine, Poldo,” Harry said, reassuring the elf who was seconds away from bursting into tears. “My owl can be quite… insistent.” Moonshine ruffled up his feathers and flew from Harry’s shoulder.

As soon as the door closed, Harry took the letter and scanned it. He had hoped the mysterious witch would take her time answering him or at least set a meeting at a later date, but she was willing to squeeze him in her tight schedule as soon as possible. This was good news for the case, but Harry couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

“That was fast.”

“Duty calls?” Severus asked, putting his briefcase on the chair. He had spent his time this morning meticulously packing his things and eyeing the heap of clothes Harry chucked together in disapproval.

“Eleni Aspraki can accommodate a meeting with me after the show this afternoon if I come see her backstage.” Harry put the note away.

“Are you going now?”

“No, we still have three hours. Could go sightseeing, or”—he fell backwards on the king-size bed, stretching his arms out—“just stay here.”

Closing his eyes, Harry relished in the softness. They had to buy a bed like this for Grimmauld. He felt the mattress dip under Severus’s knee.

“It would be a shame to leave so soon. After all, we've just got here,” Severus said, tracing a line along the buttons of Harry’s shirt.

* * *

Unlike its muggle counterpart, held in September, the wizarding version of Milan Fashion Week was a summer event, drawing the trendy types from all over the globe. Pansy had procured a schedule and a selection of articles explaining who was who in the world of magical fashion, although Harry didn’t do much more than half-heartedly skim the names and pictures. The models pouted at him from the photos, as if sensing he wasn’t paying enough attention, although by now he gathered that an expression of vague moodiness was something of a standard of the field.

The task of getting to the venue was not as hard as Harry imagined. He stepped out of the hotel to find himself right in the middle of the Galleria, the main wizarding street of Milan. The wide three-storey arcade under a tinted glass dome bustled with witches and wizards going in and out of colourful shops and boutiques, lounging in cafes and listening to a busker singing to the polyphony of musical instruments charmed to play by themselves.

Here in Milan, they could just sit in a cafe or walk around without hushed whispers and camera flashes, so Harry used the opportunity to card his and Severus's fingers together. The aroma of freshly baked bread reminded him that the meeting could go well into the evening, so he dragged Severus into the nearest pizzeria. With much regret, he had to refuse the wine, and Severus smirked smugly at him over his own glass of house red throughout the meal.

They left an hour later. Severus disappeared into a bookshop without so much a goodbye, having spotted some ancient potions tome in the shop window. Harry didn’t roam alone for long, though. The show Eleni Aspraki had invited him to was fortunately held right there in Galleria, on the second floor above a luxury jewellery store.

He flashed the pass included into Aspraki’s letter to an unimpressed wizard on the entrance. The man straightened as soon as he read the name, and Harry stifled a sigh. Even Italians knew who he was.

The show was in full swing. Looking at the brightly lit runway, Harry had an absurd desire to wipe his glasses. A woman in a liquid outfit strutted amid a swarm of camera flashes. Water flowed down her body in a dress-shaped waterfall, evaporating into a cloud at the bottom before it could reach the floor.

Leaning against the wall near the door, Harry found his old omnioculars in his pocket and focused them on the audience. Here, in the back, people were standing, while the first rows were reserved for seats. He found what—or, rather, who—he was searching for in no time. The familiar turban of Ms. Aspraki, this time olive green, was towering over the neighbours. She even had her usual sunglasses on, despite sitting in the semi-darkness.

The whole collection was based around elements, and Harry had to admit to gasping along with the audience as a model’s robe burst into flames. Despite his expectations, he watched the show with great interest. The outfits had little to do with everyday wear or even the dress robes in the windows of Madam Malkin’s shop, and were instead rather impractical but fascinating pieces of magic and art.

Although perhaps some of them were more useful than others. A man walked regally under the spotlights as his brown robe was sprouting more and more green offshoots until shrubbery covered him from head to toe. This could serve as a decent disguise, Harry supposed.

As all the models appeared on the runway again for one final stroll, followed by a grey-haired man in a smart suit—couturier, as Pansy’s articles would call him—Harry, to his surprise, felt the pang of disappointment that the show ended so soon. It was definitely an interesting experience, although he wasn’t inclined to go shopping any more than before.

Harry fixed his eyes on Ms. Aspraki and worked his way through the crowd. She was held off by a woman with hair so big it had to be a wig, letting Harry intercept her before she disappeared backstage.

Aspraki spotted him and frowned over the woman’s shoulder. Her eyes flew to his forehead, covered with his hair. Harry was not going to flash his scar in the middle of the busy crowd, but he held her gaze—or tried to do so through the opaque sunglasses—and approached her as soon as the other woman left with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. Harry noticed that their heads didn’t quite meet. Fleur’s sister Gabrielle who had come to England for an occasional visit used to greet people like that too, narrowly avoiding some painful curses from Severus when she did this last time to Harry on Dominique’s naming ceremony.

“Ms. Aspraki? My name is Harry Potter,” he said, cutting in before another man with a camera in his hand could get her attention.

“Let’s find a place to talk.” Aspraki motioned him to follow her, nodding to the photographer. “We have around an hour until the afterparty starts.” Other than slight rolling of r’s, her accent was very good.

She led them through the backdoor to a cluttered room filled with models shedding their outfits, floating makeup palettes and hairpins, and even more clothes thrown about everywhere. The girl in the flaming dress stood patiently in the middle while another witch waved her wand in a complicated pattern to put out the fire. She almost succeeded until someone called her in French, distracting her for a moment. The flames sprang anew, sparking a long-suffering sigh in the model, who gingerly touched her singed eyebrows.

On their way, Aspraki was greeted by at least five other people, but thankfully didn’t stop to talk. She seemed to be well-known and respected in this world, Harry thought as they entered a much smaller dressing room.

As the door closed behind them, she got straight to business. “I’m glad you’re investigating Daphne’s death, Mr. Potter. Someone other than nosy reporters looking for a scandal finally should.” She sat down on a high stool next to a well-lit dressing table, the only free seat in the crammed room.

“Why would you say so?” Harry asked, sitting on one of the sturdier boxes.

“You know that someone was obliviating her, right?”

Harry nodded.

“The first time she noticed this was almost two months before her death, but she believed it might have started much earlier.”

An odd murmur passed across the room. At first, Harry chalked it to the loud voices outside the door, but tuning them out, he thought he could hear a muffled susurrus coming from the boxes behind Aspraki’s back.

“Daphne flooed to my Paris flat in late April,” she continued, choosing every word with care. “She found out an invitation to a place she had no memory of in her pocket, along with... evidence that she attended it.”

“Please tell me every detail you can,” Harry prompted, wishing she’d take off her glasses. He didn’t share Severus’s talents in Mind Arts, but interviewing people went so much easier when they didn’t have half of their face obscured. “I need to know every piece of information to find out the truth.”

“Very well.” Aspraki sighed. “She apparently visited some BDSM club, despite having no memory of it. Or the inclinations.”

“People saw her there,” Harry said, remembering that Romilda had seen Daphne in Dark Desires.

“I’ve never seen her in such panic. Every explanation she could come up with was more repulsive than the other.”

Harry had to agree. The possibility that she might have been in the club against her will opened an entire can of stomach-churning worms.

“Fans often tried to slip her love potions, and she had several stalkers over the years. Not to mention men who thought that just because she was a model, she was open to anything.” Aspraki said, her mouth set in a hard line.

“You say Daphne suspected this wasn’t the first time.”

“Yes. There were nights when she went to bed early and got up late, feeling tired. It’s not proof of anything by itself, but—”

“It’s definitely troubling.”

“And it got more frequent after the club incident. I haven’t seen her since that time, but she wrote to me in May,” said Aspraki. She hesitated before continuing, her voice rueful. “Daphne didn’t have many people she could confide in or go for help.”

“Do you still have the letter?” Harry asked.

“I brought it with me.” She rummaged in her purse. The murmuring sound was there again, making Harry crane his neck.

Aspraki handed him the parchment. The handwriting was neat and slightly old-fashioned. Such a cursive was typical for rich purebloods who could afford to hire respectable tutors.

_Eleni,_

_It’s happening again. I have more memory lapses, now in daytime too. It started with the Ministry ball in the second of May, which I only remember leaving for. Nothing after that until the next morning. Theo sent an enormous bouquet of roses the next day, and I’m honestly afraid to ask why. Tony owled a note blaming ‘the incident’ on champagne, and I’m not even considering going into that._

_I’m unsure what to do. I can’t tell anyone about what’s going on. Theo would do something Gryffindorish—which, since you graduated from Beauxbatons, means stupid and reckless—and Tony is… Well, Tony. I swear I would break that engagement off, despite everything, but Mother and Father think the world of him. I don’t need family drama on top of everything now. I can just imagine my darling sister’s smug face. Astoria was insufferable at the last family dinner, she and her boyfriend. That one is a special case. Went from carrying assassination attempts ordered personally by You-Know-Who to being a primary school teacher’s little bitch. Talk about a downgrade._

Ouch. Even Harry wasn’t half as harsh on Malfoy, and that was saying a lot. The sisters were determined to see the worst in each other.

_My family can’t know about any of this. You’re so far away, and Tracy is back in Canada. And Leonard is dead._

_Remember Leonard? With my memory these days I can’t even be sure I told you about him. My squib uncle on father’s side, curator at Tate Modern? I met him there a year ago. Before this, I hadn’t even known of his existence; this is my family for you. Keeping up appearances, even if it means abandoning your eleven-year-old child and forgetting your brother ever existed._

_Leonard was wary at first, and who could blame him? What did the Wizarding World ever do to him, except cause pain? But we ~~have~~ had so much in common, much more than I’ve ever had with anyone in my family, except Benedict the portrait._

_I used to have lunch with Leonard every couple of weeks, but yesterday he didn’t show up and didn’t answer my letter. When I went to Tate, his colleagues dropped the news of his suicide on me. I just cannot fathom why he would do that. He seemed so content with his life. Although perhaps I didn’t know him so well. He mentioned his son Augustus in the note he had left. I had no idea he even had children._

Harry sat straighter. Could this Augustus it be the mysterious A.S. Greengrass? The whispering sounds grew louder around him, but he paid them no mind.

The next line was blotted out. Harry took out his wand.

“I’ll try to find out what this sentence says.”

He chanted the spell Severus created to recover scratched out insults students sometimes left on their homework when they thought they were being clever.

The spell worked best with fresh ink, but Harry could make out the words all the same.

_I have a memory lapse in the day he died._

Harry stared at the rounded cursive for a moment, scenes from Romilda’s memories replaying in his head. The Daphne he had seen attempted to get a poison that Muggle authorities wouldn’t detect. What if she had planned to use it not on a Muggle but a Squib? But this Daphne was fond of her uncle, confused and terrified. Was at least part of it just a pretence for her friend’s sake? Why would she mention it at all, then?

His head spinning, Harry returned to the letter.

_Anyway, enough of my depressing life. How’s Hecate and Ophion, still fighting? Your latest article about Versace was superb. I can’t wait to see you in Milan and chat about their new collection._

The letter continued for a full page on fashion and light gossip that held no interest to the case _._ After making a copy for himself, Harry returned it to Aspraki. She kept her face hidden as she busied herself with putting the parchment in her purse. With a sigh, she righted herself, shaking off a melancholic expression.

Most people must have left, and the noise from outside the door had died down, so each sound around him was much more distinct. What he first thought of as unintelligible murmurs were coming out as muffled words.

“I’d call that mop of hair artfully tousled if the rest of his outfit wasn’t so pathetic,” one voice said.

“Who comes to a fashion show in a robe like this? That cut has been outdated for several years now,” another voice chimed in.

Startled, Harry realized that the voices were coming not from the boxes behind Aspraki, but from the woman herself. Specifically, from her turban. It seemed he had been right. Those were always a sign of trouble. Although things would be much easier for everybody if Voldemort set out to conquer the world of fashion instead of, well, the world.

“She sent me another brief note. A question about certain French trends, not anything that could be useful in your investigation,” Aspraki said, ignoring the voices.

“—The dragonhide boots are always a classic, but look at that shirt! Did his blind granny pick it for him?” There was the third one again—or was it the first?

“I can send it to you, Mr. Potter,” she continued as if she heard nothing, although Harry could swear her lips twitched at the ‘granny’ comment.

“I’m sorry,” Harry just had to ask. “But why is your turban insulting me?”

“Insssulting?” the turban hissed. “We’re telling you how it is!”

“Ssstop it, Hecate,” Aspraki said, touching her head gently. Harry couldn’t see her eyes, but she seemed to look at him curiously. “Please excuse me, Mr. Potter. Most people cannot understand the language, so I let them get away with their sharp tongues perhaps a bit too much. It’s dreadfully boring for them to be silent all the time.”

“Them?” Harry asked, confused.

Aspraki sighed. “What do you know about me, Mr. Potter?”

“You’re the editor-in-chief of Wizarding Vogue France,” Harry was proud he remembered the name of the magazine.

“Right. Well, this is not something I advertise, but not exactly a secret.” With that, she raised her bejewelled hands to her head and started to unwrap the turban.

Harry watched in fascination, already suspecting what was underneath, if the hissing was any indication. The fabric unwinded, revealing a half dozen snakes coiled on Aspraki’s head where her hair should be.

“You’re a Gorgon,” Harry said, his eyes wide. Gorgons were dark creatures whom he taught to his third years in passing, between vampires and banshees, and never imagined meeting at the fashion show. In addition to the headful of venomous snakes, Gorgons could petrify any living being with their gaze. “That’s why the glasses.”

“Stylish ones, not this blast from the past on your face,” a light-brown adder hissed.

“Oi! I like them!” Harry exclaimed, defending his trusty glasses. There was a grain of truth in the creature’s words, though. He hadn’t changed them since his Hogwarts years, relying on charms to correct the prescription.

“Really, you are a young man, dare I say attractive, for a human. Why are you doing this to yourself?” a darker snake with a black pattern asked.

“Behave, Medusa, Ophion” Aspraki chided, the sound of Parseltongue on her lips obvious now that Harry knew what to listen to. “I’m a half-Gorgon,” she said to Harry. “My father is a wizard.”

“Aren’t all Gorgons technically half-Gorgons?” he asked. His textbook claimed that Gorgons could only be female and needed human males to reproduce.

“How rude!” said the snake that had disliked his glasses earlier. “We don’t ask you about your mating habits!”

“Why would we?” another snake asked. “That smell of recent sex on him is telling enough.”

Harry’s ears heated up.

“They aren’t used to another Parselmouth around.” Aspraki sighed. “But you are right. I’m a full-blooded Gorgon by the technical definition, although I do take after my father much more. And people feel more comfortable if I tell them about my human side.”

Harry eyed the fashion-savvy snakes warily. “Daphne knew about your nature, I take it from the letter?”

“She did. Britain is way more prejudiced against magical creatures, but she was always unbothered. Said that she couldn’t ever think otherwise with her school house mascot.” She smiled sadly. A golden-brown snake rubbed its head against her cheek.

“Really? I thought she held some prejudice against werewolves,” Harry said, remembering Parvati’s story of Daphne’s visit to her shop and altercation with Lavender.

Aspraki looked at him, surprised. “First time I hear about that. She was designing her own collection based around creatures and beasts, you know, in part to raise awareness.”

The more memories of Daphne Harry had seen, the more he dismissed Nott and Lee’s assessments of her character as clouded by their feelings. But the Daphne Eleni Aspraki knew seemed to be much closer to the person they remembered. Was it just a façade Daphne presented to her friend, unwilling to show her prejudices?

“How long did you know Daphne?” he asked.

“Five years, give or take. We met—”

The communication mirror in his robe pocket warmed and vibrated, screeching loudly: a high priority call. Sound signal was another feature Harry had asked George to add after the winter’s events.

“Excuse me,” he said, taking the compact powder box out. Several snakes rattled a laugh, a disturbing sound, but Harry refused to be shamed by reptiles. He and his mirror went through too much together to change it now.

Opening it, he was met with Pansy’s face, expression unreadable. Before she could say anything, though, the picture shifted. For a moment, it focused on the ceiling and then, to Harry’s surprise, on Draco Malfoy.

“Astoria was kidnapped,” he said without preamble, his voice high. “Come find her this instant, Potter, and then maybe I won’t bring charges for spying on me!”


	15. Chapter 15

Harry stared at his reflection in the mirror which a moment ago had showed him a different face. He hadn’t been able to get a clear picture from the hysterical Malfoy, shouting at Harry to get his arse there and cursing Daphne and the ‘shady shit she had gotten herself into’, but got the basics. Apparently, Astoria had disappeared, and Malfoy had captured some woman involved in the kidnapping in his own flat. So much for a peaceful Italian holiday.

With a sigh, Harry clicked the mirror close and then open again.

“Severus!” he called.

A couple of seconds later, his lover’s face appeared in the mirror against the backdrop of jars and trays with potions ingredients. “Harry?”

“Listen, I’ve got a bit of an emergency; hopefully, Malfoy’s making a dragon out of a doxy. But I need to pop back to Falmouth.”

Disappointment fleeted across Severus’s features before he rolled his eyes at another one of Harry’s magical idioms. He was definitely catching on.

Harry lowered his voice. “You’re good at portkeys, right? Every time I try I get the radius slightly wrong, and I don’t want to end up in the sea.”

“Only the Ministry can issue international portkeys,” Severus said with an even tone, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

Harry berated himself for the blunder, silently thanking Severus for his spying past. A less experienced person would have looked around to check if anybody was paying attention. Even if nobody did before, they certainly would at such suspicious behaviour. Harry had learned this lesson the hard way at the beginning of his investigative career.

“Where are you?” Severus asked. “I’ll be there right away.”

“There’s no need,” Eleni Aspraki interrupted, looking over Harry’s shoulder. “He must be in _Erbe e Pozioni_. The apparition point is around the corner. We should go there ourselves.”

“We’re coming to you, Severus,” Harry said before closing his mirror and turning to her curiously.

“I want to go with you,” Aspraki said with determination. Her turban was already back in place.

“To the potions shop?”

“To Britain.”

At the door already, Harry looked at her in surprise.

“This Astoria you were talking about, it’s Astoria Greengrass, right?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Daphne pretended not to care for her, but I know she did. There was bad blood there, but Daphne wouldn’t want anything happening to her sister.” Aspraki pushed past him to exit the dressing room and motioned him to follow. “I didn’t go to Britain to share my information with the family, or for the funeral. You see, it’s still legal and even honourable to kill a Gorgon in your country. That and Daphne’s stories of her parents made me stay away.”

“It’s understandable,” said Harry, keeping up with her determined stride.

“Perhaps. Or maybe it was cowardly.” She raised her chin. “But Daphne deserves justice, and Astoria doesn’t need a repeat of whatever happened to her sister. I want to help.”

Harry considered his options. They didn’t have time for an argument, and Aspraki could offer a different perspective. He still had questions left for her.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Instead of going back to the runway and then downstairs the way Harry had entered, she crossed the gallery of pass-through rooms to a fire exit. They hurried downstairs and found themselves in a narrow street, so very different from the main arcade, wide and bustling with people. A woman was levitating freshly washed clothes and hanging them on a line pulled up between opposite windows. She shouted something in Italian to them as Harry ducked, avoiding wet robes.

A couple of turns later, they found themselves at a small square with a fountain in the middle. Two women strolled in from the main street and disapparated with a loud pop. In their place, four new people appeared, one elderly witch wearing a hat with an eagle that would make Augusta Longbottom green with envy.

Severus stood up from the marble fountain ledge and narrowed his eyes at Aspraki. Harry introduced them briefly, trying to convey an affirmative message with his eyes and probably looking silly. Severus shook the proffered hand, regarding the turban with suspicion.

“Do you have the portkey?” Harry asked.

“Yes. The one we got in the Ministry this morning.” Severus produced a quill from his pocket.

Of course, since they came to Italy by international floo, they didn’t actually have any portkeys. Harry hated them with passion since he was fourteen and avoided travelling that way if he could.

“I’m not going to rat you out.” Aspraki snorted. Harry could bet she was rolling her eyes behind her glasses. “Italians wouldn’t care, anyway; everybody makes those to travel to the neighbouring countries right under the Ministry’s nose,” she said. “Britain _is_ rather far, though. I hope your skills are up to the task.”

“They are,” Harry cut in before Severus could say anything. “Ms. Aspraki is coming with us,” he explained.

“You are welcome to travel by your own means, Madam,” Severus said waspishly.

Harry reached for the quill, forestalling any further bickering. “Let’s go, then.”

“Stay silent,” Aspraki hissed under her breath to the rude comments disparaging everything from Severus’s nose and disposition, which were coming from the snakes safely hidden under the fabric, and grabbed the portkey too.

“Moonstone,” Severus said with a last wary look at her turban, and Harry felt a hook behind his navel tugging him across the continent.

He tumbled at the familiar embankment, and would have toppled over if not for Severus’s hand on his elbow. His cheeks heated as he saw how gracefully his companions landed. Straightening himself, Harry shivered at the biting gust of wind. Unlike the warm Italian sun painting the air golden as it set over Galeria, their English sky was steely and uninviting.

“You know where Malfoy lives?” he asked, breathing in the heavy sea air. He expected Severus to bring them to the P&P office.

“I paid him a visit here once. After the howler in January,” Severus explained.

“Right.” Harry blushed at the memory. “Are you coming, then? You can—”

“I’m coming.”

Harry looked over at Aspraki, receiving a nod in response. Wasting no more time, they went inside.

“Thank Merlin, you’re here,” Pansy breathed out, meeting them at the door. “I need to go check the surveillance ball, but I’m afraid Draco will tear this poor lady here apart.”

“Go get it. I want to know what’s going on.” Harry frowned. He hoped Pansy’s own meeting with Malfoy went without spilling blood on both sides.

“I’ll be right back,” Pansy said, walking past them to the door with a curious look at Aspraki.

In the living room, they were greeted by the sight of Malfoy waving his wand in the face of Daphne’s neighbour. The woman was roped to a chair.

“Filthy squib!” he shouted. “You’ll tell me where Astoria is even if I have to pour Veritaserum into your throat myself!”

The regal expression from yesterday was nowhere to be seen, driven out by fear as she cringed away from the wand. Replaying their conversation at Daphne’s flat, Harry wondered how she knew the way here. The woman obviously knew more than she had led him to believe.

“Draco.” Severus’s voice was low and commanding. Malfoy righted himself at once, as if caught passing notes during a lesson. “Stop threatening this woman for a moment and explain what is going on.”

“I came home, but instead of Astoria, I found this—this _individual_ unconscious in the living room and signs of a struggle everywhere!” Malfoy’s hands were flying animatedly.

“Signs of a struggle?” Harry asked, looking around. The room looked perfectly orderly. Much more orderly than his own living room, if he was honest.

“That vase. It was overturned when I came,” Malfoy said, pointing to a big vase of orchids on the windowsill. “But more importantly, the tracking charms on Astoria are gone!”

Looking away from the perfectly positioned vase, Harry studiously avoided catching Severus's eyes. This was not the time to ponder the ever-entertaining vagaries of Draco Malfoy. Harry shook his head and turned to the woman.

“Why are you here,”—he eyed the gold band on her finger—“Mrs. Longbottom?” He had made a point to look up her name after their first talk. The mailbox had sported the family name in elegant gold calligraphy.

“And as I’ve already said, I have no idea how I got here.” Her speech was slightly slurred, as if she struggled to stay awake, and the shadows under her eyes were even more pronounced since the day before.

“A likely tale!” Malfoy exclaimed.

“What do you mean, you have no idea?” Harry asked, ignoring him.

“I remember being at home,” said Mrs. Longbottom. “The next thing I knew I woke up with a horrible headache tied to this chair and this man shouting in my face.”

“Is it the first time you’ve experienced memory lapses?” Harry asked.

“No.” She averted her eyes. “I’ve had blackouts several times this week. Yesterday, I found myself at the door of my house in a robe—and I haven’t owned one in years!”

Harry frowned. “Do you remember our conversation?”

“What conversation?” Mrs. Longbottom looked at him blankly.

“Do you believe that tripe?” Malfoy interjected. “Severus, can you bring the truth serum? Let’s find out what really happened!”

“I will not drink any potions!” She trashed in her ropes.

“Veritaserum is toxic for Squibs and Muggles,” Severus said. “But I have another solution. I can access your mind and search for related memories if you let me, Madam.”

“Legilimency.” The woman nodded. “This one’s fine.”

Harry was reasonably sure Severus used it on her the moment they entered the room, or at least tried to—even some Squibs and Muggles had natural Occlumency barriers. It was still important to know that she was willing to cooperate.

Before Severus could do anything, the front door banged in the hall. The surveillance ball in her hands, Pansy hurried into the living room. Harry wanted to believe that she was in such a haste to save Astoria, but she was probably dying of curiosity.

“A crystal ball, really?” Malfoy asked derisively before narrowing his eyes. “Is this how you’ve been spying on me?”

“I saw Draco ready to kill this lady and had to intervene,” Pansy explained at Harry’s pinched expression. He was far from thrilled at sharing all of their trade secrets.

Pansy put the ball on the coffee table and they gathered around it, except for still tied Ms. Logbottom and Aspraki, who kept her distance. Harry straddled the armrest at Severus’s side, earning himself a glare from Malfoy.

“Hush,” Pansy said, rewinding the picture until she found what she needed. “Aha!”

_Astoria was reading on the couch, feet tucked under her. At the sound of the doorbell, she closed her book and marked the page with a quill. As she stood up, she summoned a robe to put over her short dress that was perfectly acceptable in the muggle world but could be considered indecent by wizards. Throwing it on, she went to the hall. There was a sound of the door opening._

The minutes trickled by without her returning. Pansy applied the sound-amplifying charms, revealing voices from the hall, but the words remained unintelligible.

While they were waiting for Astoria to reappear in the ball, Malfoy twisted his head to stare at the spot where the snow globe transmitter stood hidden.

“What the actual fuck?” he asked accusingly. “How long have you been spying on us from there?”

“Just a couple of days,” Harry said, wincing.

“And you should thank us for that,” Pansy interjected. “Look!”

_Astoria returned to the room and waved her wand, lighting the candles. After a moment, Mrs. Longbottom came inside with a big flat package under her arm._

_“So you are saying you’ve heard someone in the flat, right?” Astoria asked._

_“Yes, and not for the first time.”_

_“It might’ve been our private detective. I need to contact him.”_

_Mrs. Longbottom stumbled at the coffee table, the package slipping out of her hand. Stepping forward, Astoria caught it. For a moment, she just stood still, looking at Mrs. Longbottom with an odd expression. As she came out of her reverie, she took her wand out of her sleeve and pointed it at the other woman._

_“Stupefy!”_

_Mrs. Longbottom fell on the floor in a heap. Astoria came over and rummaged in her purse, taking out a wand made of reddish wood._

“That is Daphne’s wand!” Pansy exclaimed.

Harry chanced a quick glance at Malfoy who was watching the scene with his mouth half-open. Based on his expression, whatever was going on with his fiancé was a shock for him as well.

_Without a glance at Mrs. Longbottom, Astoria strode over to the window and drew back the sheer curtain. She opened the window wider and leaned out before making a strange jerking motion and staggering back. Her elbow grazed against the vase and overturned it. The vase rolled to the floor, splashes of water landing on Astoria’s robe._

_“Damnation,” she swore, drying it with a spell._

_She stepped to the window again and reached outside. After a few seconds of fumbling, she levitated a package and opened it._

Pansy gasped, scandalised and triumphant in equal measure. Wrapped in newspaper sheets was Magic Moste Evile.

_There was another item gleaming in the package, the familiar onyx necklace. Astoria took it to put around her neck. She paused midway as she was clasping it, her face showing some internal struggle. After a moment of indecision was over, she slipped the book into Mrs. Longbottom’s package, pocketed Daphne’s wand, and strode out of the room._

Pansy fast-forwarded the picture with a tap of her wand, but nothing else had happened until Malfoy’s arrival.

Everybody just stared at the ball for a minute until Aspraki, who had been watching the ball over Harry’s shoulder, broke the reverie. “Can you at least untie this poor woman? It’s obvious that she’s not involved in any of this.”

“Says you!” Malfoy exclaimed, his eyes still wide in disbelief. "Who are you, anyway? Who did you bring to my house, Potter?”

“Eleni Aspraki, Daphne’s friend. Ms. Aspraki, this is Draco Malfoy,” Harry said, waving his wand to vanish the ropes around Mrs. Longbottom despite Malfoy’s protests. “He’s such an arse because he’s nervous and worried,” he added charitably. “Well, he’s always an arse to me, but he’s usually not this rude to random strangers nowadays.”

“I see,” said Aspraki, tone clearly showing that she didn’t.

“What’s the last thing you remember before waking up here, Mrs. Longbottom?”

“I… I’ve been in my room, I guess.” The woman creased her forehead. “It’s all hazy.”

“Allow me to look,” Severus said, bringing a chair over to sit opposite her, their knees almost meeting.

“Be my guest,” Mrs. Longbottom said. “I need to know too.”

“You might experience discomfort, especially if I attempt to recover the missing memories. It would be easier for you if we had some skin contact as well.”

She nodded, visibly bracing herself, and extended her hands to Severus.

“Look me directly in the eyes, please,” Severus said. “Legilimens!”

Nothing happened, except Severus and Mrs. Longbottom holding hands and staring at each other with vacant expressions. Occasionally, faint tremors would run through the woman’s body. After what felt like hours, but couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes, Severus blinked several times and let go of her hands. Mrs. Longbottom came to herself much more slowly, winced, and put her hand to her temple.

“This is an extremely well done Obliviation, one of the best examples I’ve ever seen,” said Severus. “I was able to uncover a fraction of her memories, but most of them are under what seems to be a solid black wall.” He turned to Mrs. Longbottom. “I’m hesitant to attempt more invasive techniques while your mind is frayed from the recent events.”

“But what did you find out?” Pansy asked, leaning forward in her armchair.

“I remember more now,” said Mrs. Longbottom, her voice still weak. “I was in the kitchen, cooking, when there was a shout for help from upstairs. So I went up to Daphne’s flat. The door was unlocked.” Everybody leaned forward, listening to every word. “I recall going into the living room... And that’s all.”

Malfoy let out a rude sound of disappointment.

“I examined other instances,” said Severus, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The first occurred on Monday morning.”

“The day Daphne’s wand was stolen!” Harry couldn’t help but interject.

Severus sent him an annoyed look at being interrupted. “It started the same as today’s memory, with Mrs. Longbottom hearing the noises upstairs and coming to check. She regained her senses in the evening, back in her flat, but with a bruised knee and a limp.”

“Didn’t you say the thief apparated out, Potter?” Malfoy asked. “Some squib you are! Confess everything, woman!”

“I think I would notice if I had even a drop of magic in me,” Mrs. Longbottom said with a pinched expression. “Believe me, I don’t.”

Harry winced, recalling the tales Neville used to tell about the pureblood traditions of checking for magic in children.

“She’s telling the truth,” Severus agreed.

“I heard the sound of apparition, but I didn’t actually see anyone with that bloody hippogriff charging at me,” Harry said, fidgeting restlessly. The delicate armrest he was sitting on creaked.

“Typical.” Malfoy harrumphed, giving him the stink eye.

“There was another erased memory that might be noteworthy,” Severus said, briefly putting a calming hand on Harry’s knee. “Shortly before Miss Greengrass’s death, Mrs. Longbottom had a conversation with her about her uncle.”

“Leonard Greengrass?” Harry perked up.

“Yes,” Mrs. Longbottom said. “My husband—Fitzwilliam Longbottom—runs a charity for people without magical abilities born to wizarding families, to help their integration into the Muggle world, you see,” she explained. “And Leonard was a major benefactor. His death came as a shock.”

“You knew him well?”

“I met him through my husband once or twice, but Will considered him a friend. And he was astonished to learn that Leonard apparently had a son. A son to whom he left everything he owned, at that.”

“Is Daphne’s squib uncle really something we should concentrate on right now?” Draco asked.

“Yes,” Harry shot him down.

“Apparently, Miss Greengrass obliviated Mrs. Longbottom after they talked about that around two weeks before her death, erasing the memories of the conversation and the knowledge of the son’s existence,” Severus explained, unbothered by the annoyed glance Mrs. Longbottom sent him for talking on her behalf. “The charm was much weaker than the recent ones, though, and was easy to break.”

“Astoria was always much better at charms than her sister,” Pansy said from her armchair, studying her nails.

“What are you implying here?!” Malfoy’s voice rose.

“What we’re all thinking here.” She looked him in the eyes. “You need to face the truth, Draco. Your fiancé—”

“You don’t know what you are talking about! You hate Astoria because of me, but you have no idea what kind of person she really is!” Malfoy stood up, his breath laboured. “She would never get involved in some Dark Arts shit. She’s not me, all right?”

“Sit down, Draco,” said Severus.

Malfoy flung himself back on the sofa, putting his head into his hands. “Astoria must’ve been Imperiused or something,” he said. "If we believe this woman here, which I’m still not convinced I do, that means she was as well.”

Pansy looked at him sceptically, and Harry couldn’t help but share her doubts. Still, something was niggling at the back of his mind, something very important he was missing.

“She must have been!” Malfoy said again like a stubborn child, chin set up. “Look, the Longbottom auntie remembers nothing even though Astoria didn’t Obliviate her. Someone else is at play!”

This was Harry’s turn to leap on his feet, eyes wide in realisation.

“She remembers nothing, nothing at all,” he repeated slowly. “That’s because she wasn’t—bloody hell!”


	16. Chapter 16

“Pansy, I need you to take Ms. Aspraki with you and go to Hogwarts.” Harry took the two women aside and swiftly explained what he needed them to do. If his estimates were right, Astoria might yet be alive.

“Got it,” Pansy said with a nod, her eyes lit with curiosity. She studiously avoided staring at Aspraki's turban. Harry loved Pansy all the more for the fact that, when push came to shove, he could always count on her to remain calm and professional and do her part, no matter how odd the situation was. Aspraki herself seemed unbothered by the attention and notably intrigued by the plan.

“Brits are all insssane,” Harry thought he heard from her turban as she and Pansy hurried out.

A loud gasp turning into a scream made him twist around. Mrs. Longbottom suddenly folded on herself, lacerations breaking out on her hands and face.

Leaping from his seat, Severus rushed to her side at once. As his eyes scanned the wounds, he waved Harry off. “I know this curse,” he said, his words clipped. He made a complicated gesture with his wand, and Mrs. Longbottom froze mid-motion. “Time-delayed _Viscera Incisura_.”

“Can you lift it?” Harry asked, moving over in case he needed help.

“Of course. It will take some time, but I’m reasonably certain I can prevent any lasting damage.” Turning his full attention to her, he became absorbed in spellcasting, muttering countercurses and healing charms under his breath.

With a nod, Harry headed to the door.

“Hey!” Malfoy called. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Getting your fiancé back,” Harry replied without turning.

Malfoy hurried after him. “You didn’t really expect me to let you go alone, did you, Potter?”

“Fine. But if I tell you to do something, you do it. Got it?”

Malfoy waved him off like a bothersome fly. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“Greengrass Manor. Apparate to the gate.”

“Don’t you think it was the first place I contacted?” Malfoy’s lip curled in derision. “Really, Potter, this is the quality of service you offer your clientele?”

Harry rolled his eyes heavenward. If Astoria’s life was not in danger, he might have a few choice words to say to the annoying git, and to hell with being professional. Which would lead to hexes, or worse, blows, and they did not have time for that. Narcissa would have a field day, and Severus would never let him hear the end of it.

Outside, the sky was pitch-dark already, the lantern on the wall drawing a circle of light over the ground. He stepped into it from the door, Apparition spell on his lips.

The gate to the Greengrass Manor was closed, but a wrought iron eye on top focused on Harry as he came near. Malfoy apparated right next to him, dispelling his vague hopes that the magic would bring him somewhere, anywhere else. He could still prove useful, Harry thought guiltily. Or get in the way, which was likelier.

With a creak that was obviously there for the sake of appearance, the gate opened. The manor was even more impressive at night, illuminated with golden, magical light. Tiny fluorescent fairies flitted over the gardens, tittering as Harry passed them.

“Out of curiosity, what’s the eldest Greengrass’s name?” he asked Malfoy.

“The Grandfather? Benedict,” Malfoy said, speeding along.

“Like the portrait?”

“He _is_ the man from the portrait.”

“Why is it animated if he’s still alive, then?”

“Because he’d gone fwoopers since before Astoria’s parents were born? There’s not much from the person he once was left in that body. This happens sometimes, I guess.” Malfoy shrugged disinterestedly. “Why are we even talking about bloody portraits?”

The familiar house-elf opened the front door. Unlike the last time, when he was a picture of calm, the elf was agitated, wringing his arms anxiously.

“Welcome to the Greengrass Manor,” he said, letting them inside. “Will the guests please wait here for a moment?”

“Step aside, elf.” Malfoy swept past him with a dismissive expression.

“We’ve got an urgent matter,” Harry explained, following Malfoy deeper into the stately home.

Stepping out of the wood-paneled entrance hall, they were assaulted with sobs from the drawing room.

“I want to die!” His nightcap askew, the old Grandfather Greengrass wailed in a heap on the floor. A stick-like ankle with bluish veins was poking out from under his old-fashioned nightgown. Harry would never in a million years have imagined this man was Benedict from the portrait, although now that he looked closer, he recognised the grey eyes if not the expression in them. “Just let me die, please!”

Cordelia was sitting on the sofa with her hand over eyes, while Mortimer stood over the old man, running his fingers indecisively over his wand. Noticing Malfoy, he scowled.

“It’s not a good time, Draco.”

“Good evening,” Harry said, entering as well. “We just need to ask you a couple of questions. I don’t want to scare you, but your daughter’s wellbeing might be on the line.”

That got the Greengrasses’ attention.

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Potter?” Cordelia asked, sitting straighter.

“It’s a long story, and time is of the essence here,” said Harry. “This might seem strange, but please tell me where your ancestors are buried.”

Everybody, including Malfoy, looked at him as if he’d grown a second head.

“In a crypt in here on the grounds,” Mortimer said slowly. “Why?”

Harry ignored the question. “And Benedict’s father is in there?”

“Yes.”

At the sound of his name, Grandfather Greengrass sprung to his feet, surprisingly agile for a man pushing his three hundredth birthday.

“You stole my fiancé from me, Henry Potter, and I hated you for it. But you were the only one to cross my way and end up victorious.” He clawed at Harry’s hand, his milky eyes somewhat clear at last. “Stop him. Me. _If you are not just another figment of my imagination, stop me._ ”

“Grandfather—” Mortimer started.

“I will, Mr. Greengrass,” Harry said solemnly, and the old man let him go, hand going limp. Harry turned to Mortimer. “I need to get to your crypt.”

“Let Potter do his Potter thing,” Malfoy interjected. “Astoria is in danger, and all we’re doing is wasting time.”

Cordelia exchanged looks with her husband. “You can show Mr. Potter to the crypt, Draco,” she said. “I believe you know where it is.”

Malfoy led Harry outside and round the building, in the opposite direction that Harry had run when following the thief.

“I don’t believe that Astoria would be involved in anything dark of her own free will,” he said conversationally. “But if she is, I’ll make sure you’ll bring this information to your grave.”

“Don’t worry Malfoy.” Harry hid a smile at his protectiveness. “You were right the first time. Astoria isn’t being herself right now.”

“What’s going on, will you tell me already?”

“She’s being possessed. Don’t approach her whatever she says. Or better yet, just stay outside.”

“Like hell I will!”

The crypt was an old stone building in the middle of a small courtyard, its door ajar. Muted candlelight was coming through high lancet windows. They exchanged looks, Harry’s caution trickling down to Malfoy, and entered, wands out.

Inside, the place was much bigger than outside, rows of marble sarcophagi stretching off along the walls. A big cauldron was set in the middle of the crypt, between a white carved sarcophagus and a statue of a mourning witch. Fire licked its bottom, rising seemingly out of nowhere. Harry’s stomach churned at the sickly-sweet drag that unearthed old memories which still came to him in his nightmares.

Malfoy jumped skittishly as the door closed behind them with a snap, prompted by an invisible hand. Before they could turn to it, there was a movement near the cauldron.

“Draco!” Astoria’s voice reverberated through the crypt. “Please, help me!”

“Malfoy, no!” Harry called, but Malfoy rushed ahead, forgetting his warnings. Harry sighed. “ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ”

The spell hit Malfoy in the back, and Harry threw a cushioning charm just in time for him not to knock his teeth out. Harry was uncomfortably reminded of another night when he had been the one petrified, watching Malfoy from the cold stone floor of the Astronomy Tower.

“Why would you do that, Harry?” Astoria appeared in the aisle from behind the statue, her eyes wide. The necklace still adorned her neck. Harry remembered Mrs. Brown’s admonitions about onyx. He should have listened more closely then.

As he stepped in front of Malfoy, careful not to come any further than necessary, Harry took a close look around. A book lay open on the sarcophagus, and a framed painting was propped against it with its painted side facing in.

“Give me that portrait, please,” Harry said, his voice even.

Astoria dropped her fearful expression, cocking her head to the side. “You are a worthy opponent, Harry Potter,” she said. “I suppose you can count as a foe for the purpose of the potion. I did tweak the recipe so it isn’t strictly required, but if you’d be so as kind to provide a bit of your blood, it would certainly strengthen it.”

“You are not getting any of my blood, _Benedict_ ,” Harry said, training his wand on Astoria. “Far more accomplished evil bastards lived to regret doing that.”

“I assure you that I am a legitimate offspring of my father, Harry” she—or, rather, he—said, giving Harry a forbearing smile that looked completely out of place on Astoria’s face. The wand slipped into her delicate hand. “Nor am I evil. I wish no harm to anybody.”

“Except Daphne. And Astoria. And Leonard Greengrass,” Harry said sarcastically.

Astoria’s eyes flashed at the last name before Benedict composed himself. “Daphne’s death was regrettable. It was not my intention at all. And fret not: I shall let Astoria go as soon as I’ve finished with the ritual.”

Liar, Harry thought, lunging forward and firing a stunner. Even Tom bloody Riddle was honest about his plans for Ginny.

Benedict deflected it with a Protego and ducked behind the statue he had appeared from.

“I wish we could do this like civilized people,” he said with a theatrical sigh. “But no matter. The Greengrass crypt has a handy protection from non-family members attempting to bother the dead. _Piertotum Locomotor_!”

The marble mourning witch Benedict was hiding behind slowly removed her hand from her face and turned her head to Harry. Before he could cast a pre-emptive blasting hex, he caught a blurry shape flying to him from the corner of his eye. He dodged, avoiding the gargoyle leaping at him from under the dome ceiling by the skin of his teeth.

“ _Bombarda_!” he shouted. The spell blasted the stone creature’s head off its shoulders without slowing it down in the slightest. “ _Bombarda Maxima_!” That was more helpful, obliterating the gargoyle together with part of the nearest sarcophagus. A skeletal foot fell out to the aisle.

“That’s Great-Granduncle Ambrose,” Benedict said conversationally. The condescending tone sounded odd coming from Astoria’s mouth. “I have to confess that his current state pleases me immensely. Still, please be careful.”

“Fuck you— _Bombarda Maxima_!” Harry was prevented from showering Benedict-Astoria with curses by the statue of the witch that had stomped to him, floor trembling. A marble warlock with a Dumledoresque beard joined her from the other side of the crypt. Firing another spell, Harry briefly considered reviving Malfoy but decided against it. Malfoy was safer lying where he was, and Harry was managing on his own so far.

“I wanted to throttle Ambrose’s portrait version so many times, you cannot even imagine.” Benedict pointed Astoria’s wand at the sarcophagus on the other side of the cauldron, and its carved lid started to slide off. “I told you once that portraits don’t have any desires or feelings, only memories of having them. It’s true. They are set in their ways, repeating themselves on an eternal loop of limited responses. It’s not noticeable at first, but a decade with them will drive any man out of his senses. For I’m not an ordinary portrait, as you have surely guessed.”

“You’re a Horcrux,” Harry breathed out, sending the warlock crashing to the wall in a pile of rubble. The first statue lay disjointed at his feet.

“Very good, Harry,” Benedict turned to him from the sarcophagus with a skull in his hand. His other hand was still holding Astoria’s wand tightly. “Now—”

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

Benedict raised a hand to throw a shield, but Harry’s reflexes won. The wand flew out, and he caught it, old Seeker’s reflexes coming in handy. With a shriek of frustration, he attempted to hide behind the bubbling cauldron.

“It’s over, Benedict,” Harry said, pocketing the wand. “Get out of there.”

Benedict straightened up, his expression of annoyance melting as he raised Astoria’s hand again. There was another wand between her fingers, reddish this time.

“Fuck. Daphne’s wand,” Harry swore. He was prepared to throw a shield, but the magic of the spell washed past him.

“Indeed,” Benedict said. Obeying the wand, a petrified figure flew down the aisle.

Harry cursed some more.

“What a dirty mouth you have on you, my friend.” Benedict tsked, levitating Malfoy over the cauldron.

“Why are you doing this? Malfoy won’t help you here. He isn’t your servant, nor is he willing.”

“I must say that for a man reported to be a hero of the Light, your knowledge of the Dark Arts is rather profound,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “But no, he is of no use to me in the ritual. Draco is insurance that you will refrain from doing anything stupid.”

“I don’t care about Malfoy.”

“No? How about I—” Malfoy came several feet down, suspended barely a foot over the boiling milky surface.

Harry’s wand was in the air, ready to catch him.

“I thought so.” Benedict chuckled before growing serious. “It pains me that it has to be like that. I truly do not wish you or Draco any harm. I just want to live. Is it so much to ask?”

“It is when you do so at the expense of other people’s lives.”

“The decision to sacrifice Daphne for my resurrection was the hardest in my life.”

Harry looked at him dubiously.

“I’m not a monster, Harry. I loved her with all my heart. Daphne was the one to take me out of my old fool of a creator’s room, where I spent almost two centuries hidden.” A pained expression flitted across his face. His hand trembled, making Malfoy jerk over the cauldron. “Being a portrait was a blessing and a curse. I’ve often wondered how things would have turned out should I have gone with a locket or a ring, as was my first plan. Would I spend time in eternal slumber as my creator succumbed to madness and ailments of the body?”

Despite his experience with both locket and ring Horcruxes, Harry wisely refrained from saying anything.

“As Daphne poured her soul into me, I grew stronger,” Benedict continued. Harry had heard similar words once already. “I’ve noticed that I’m able to possess her since she was a little girl at Hogwarts. It took me a decade to actually act on it, when the temptation to feel, to breathe again grew overwhelming.”

“So you decided to drain Daphne of her life force.”

“Not at first. But you must understand, getting a taste of what it is like being human again, I could not give it up for any treasure in the world.” Malfoy twitched again. “Daphne didn’t have to suffer. She would just not wake up one day, pass away peacefully. I had no plans for any kidnappings, cauldrons, or this grave-robbing unpleasantness.” Benedict looked at the skull in his other hand in disgust.

“Why did you steal Magic Moste Evile, then?”

“I had to find a way to dispose of the dotty version of me and trap his half of the soul in an object. This necklace on my neck would be perfect for that. Modern generations forgot about the power of stones, but everyone in my time knew that onyx amplifies Dark Magic,” he said with a dismissive expression. “And in the meantime, it ensured stronger possession. Doubly useful. The plan was laid out so carefully. But the stupid girl just had to drink that anti-Obliviation potion, ruining everything!” His voice rose at the last sentence.

The crypt’s ironwood door rattled behind Harry, but Benedict didn’t seem to notice, busy with his speech.

“It wasn’t just Daphne. You killed Leonard Greengrass,” Harry pointed out, buying himself some more time.

“He was just a squib.” He shrugged. “It was an unpleasant task—as I said, I prefer to slay with a quill—but it had to be done.”

“Why?”

“As a legitimate Greengrass, even a son of a squib, I’ll be able to enter the society and have doors open for me that would be forever closed otherwise. Even with my fortune,”—That you stole from Daphne, Harry thought in disgust—“I’d be treated like a Mudblood otherwise.” Benedict made a face. “I do not believe in their inferiority, never did, actually. But whatever the Prophet says, this century still does.”

“And any blood and magic test will prove that you are who you say you are.”

“Naturally. Besides, I’m loyal to my family and wish more than anything to return to the fold.”

Harry stifled an incredulous snort. “Why did you curse Mrs. Longbottom?”

“Who?” he asked in confusion.

“Daphne’s neighbour.”

“Oh, another squib.” Benedict waved Astoria’s wand hand dismissively, making Malfoy soar up in the air. “She was useful, helping me get this wand, and will be more useful still dying messily in Draco’s flat.” At Harry’s horrified look, he elaborated. “The death of another Greengrass daughter is bound to raise some questions. I need to provide an answer, and everybody will jump at Draco as a culprit.”

The boiling cauldron belched a puff of steam, reaching Malfoy’s robes.

“I believe the potion is ready for the next stage,” Benedict said without taking his eyes from Harry. “It is always a pleasure to talk to you, Harry, but—”

The sound of breaking glass startled them. For a brief moment, Benedict dragged his eyes from Harry to look over to the window. Seizing his chance, Harry kicked the cauldron with every bit of force he could, overturning it. The potion poured out, sizzling as it touched the floor.

With a gasp, Benedict leapt away, trying to escape the hot liquid. Malfoy, no longer supported by his magic, plummeted, but Harry was ready, intercepting him and levitating him to the ground while Benedict dealt with the scalds on Astoria’s hand.

Harry revived Malfoy before casting Expelliarmus for the second time, just as Benedict shouted, “ _Piertotum Locomotor_!”

“I hate you so much, Potter,” Malfoy hissed, staggering back towards the window where Pansy’s head was peeking out.

Daphne’s wand flew into Harry’s hand, but not before the spell from it animated the statues and the gargoyle again, raising them from the rubble around Harry. As he found himself surrounded by the stone attackers again, Benedict limped round the overturned cauldron and snatched up the portrait. Harry would have sworn if his every breath hadn’t been going into spellcasting. Fighting three statues at once, he didn’t have a spare second to try and stop Benedict.

“Give it to me, you wig-wearing cunt!” He heard Malfoy shout.

“Nothing you can do can harm a Horcrux, Draco. You can only hurt your beloved that way,” Benedict admonished. “Now, let me go and I will swear an unbreakable vow to you that I’ll leave you and Astoria alone.”

“Do you really think I’m that stupid?” Malfoy asked incredulously. From the corner of his eye, Harry saw him lunge at the portrait and stab it with a fang clutched in his hand.

A piercing inhuman shriek rose up from the frame, and Astoria went limp in Malfoy’s arms. The statues—or what was left of them the second time around—froze mid-motion around Harry.

“Draco?” Astoria asked weakly, opening her eyes. “What’s going on? Where are we?” She looked around. “Is this our family crypt?”

Malfoy drew her closer to him, peppering her face with kisses. He stopped for a moment, opened his mouth several times as if to say something, but then kissed her again instead. As they finally parted, Malfoy’s eyes were shiny, while Astoria smiled at him in bemusement.

“What, in Merlin’s name, is happening here?” Mortimer’s voice boomed from the door. “You’d better have a good explanation, Mr. Potter!”

Harry leant against the nearest sarcophagus and winced. One of the blasted statues had dislocated his shoulder, which he felt acutely now that adrenalin ebbed away. Pansy appeared at his side, frantically checking him for injuries.

“I’m fine, Pans.” He waved her off, or at least tried to. Maybe that dislocation diagnosis was too hasty.

“Well? I’m waiting!” Mortimer inquired.

For a moment of weakness, Harry was tempted to let Malfoy do the talking and just go home. Sighing, he discarded the idea as potentially disastrous. Explanations. It seemed that the most daunting part of the evening was yet to come.

He took the portrait lying on the floor with the Basilisk fang stuck in it. The poison was slowly creeping up from the chest of a sleeping wizard, corroding his handsome features, peaceful and undisturbed in his sleep.

“Dessstructive barbarians, these Brits,” he heard hissing from under Aspraki’s turban as he passed her at the door, half blocked with the bearded head of the statue he had fought. “First that chamber with our fallen brother and now that.”

“Damn right you are, Hecate. Damn right you are.” 


	17. Chapter 17

The first rays of dawn found Harry at his desk at the office, sipping acidic espresso from the newly repaired coffee-machine and trying to stay awake. The letters on the half-finished case report swam, but Harry knew that if he did not finish it now, he would never get down to doing it at all. His superiors from the DMLE, when he had still been an Auror trainee, would be appalled at his paperwork as it was. Unlike Pansy, he had always hated it, while grudgingly admitting that at least the bare minimum should be done. Not that Pansy’s reports would meet Senior Auror Robards’s approval. She preferred old-school Rita Skeeter style of writing to objective statements: lots of scathing adjectives and exclamation marks.

“This is undrinkable,” Pansy said from her own desk. Contradicting her words, she gulped down the rest of her cup.

They had spent the night at Greengrass Manor, where Harry explained everything that happened to Daphne and Astoria. Aspraki had left somewhere between the second and the third round of questions, but Harry and Pansy stayed until the house-elf announced that Grandfather Greengrass’s condition had worsened critically. The family went to be with him in what probably were his last hours—although Malfoy at first protested Astoria facing the man who had possessed and tried to kill her, or, at least, some version of him. Malfoy had her hand clutched tightly in his own. He had not released it once since leaving the crypt.

“I kind of feel sorry for him.” Pansy banished her cup with a disgusted expression.

“Whom?”

“Benedict. The portrait, I mean, not the old man.”

“Why?” Harry raised his head from the report.

“Imagine being trapped like that for decades, centuries. A point must come where you’d do anything to get out.”

Harry sighed. If he was honest with himself, this thought had come to him as he had been pulling the Basilisk fang out of the destroyed portrait—came and vanished as soon as he remembered everything Benedict had done.

“He attempted to kill three people and succeeded with one,” he reminded. “Not to mention at least one more murder to create the Horcrux. And he had no qualms whatsoever about framing Malfoy.”

“People make stupid decisions when they feel cornered and alone,” Pansy said, looking out of the window with a slight crease of her brow. She shook her head. “But he went way too far. Whatever my opinion of Astoria is, she didn’t deserve to get boiled in that cauldron so her granddaddy could get reborn and lead a cushy life with the money he stole from her sister.”

“We’ll make best friends out of the two of you yet.” Harry smiled wryly. Astoria and Malfoy had both thanked Pansy profusely, and she had been at a loss on how to respond.

Pansy crumpled a paper from her desk and threw it at Harry, who caught it with a grin. “How did you guess it was the portrait?” she asked.

“The things just clicked.” Harry hesitated. “Ginny was under the influence of the Horcrux in her first year at Hogwarts. A piece of Tom Riddle’s soul wanted to regain his body using her life force, same as Benedict intended to do with Daphne. Ginny also had memory lapses when Riddle possessed her and was exhausted all the time.”

“The Basilisk,” Pansy breathed out.

“Yeah. Then there’s the fact that Astoria and Mrs. Longbottom both had blackouts in Daphne’s flat. And Astoria’s changed behaviour when she received that painting-shaped package. Besides, Benedict always appeared slightly... too alive.”

“What about his plan for Astoria and that cauldron? You knew it right away. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you redirecting the question when Daddy Greengrass asked it.”

“Voldemort used a similar ritual for his return in our fourth year,” Harry said curtly.

“Oh.”

“He had that creepy baby body instead of possessing anyone.” Harry shook his head, driving off the memories of the graveyard. “But the end result, I suppose, would be the same.”

“Him resurrecting and living as a son of the squib from the richest pureblood family.”

“With Astoria out of the way, he’d have a good chance to become their sole heir, too.”

Pansy gave a whistle. “Whatever you say, Benedict was certainly ambitious. And cunning. I’d be very surprised if he was in any house other than Slytherin in his time.”

“Speaking of Slytherins,” said Harry. “How’s the Chamber of Secrets?”

“It’s a... landmark, I guess, although morbid dungeons went out of fashion some centuries ago, don’t you think?” Pansy was clearly not impressed but hesitant to show disloyalty to her old house. “It’s got a little too filthy since our esteemed founder’s time. Some cleaning would not be amiss. Look, my shoes are ruined forever.” She swung on her chair to stretch her leg out to Harry. The black loafers looked good enough to display in a shop window.

“They seem fine to me.”

“ _I_ will always remember the horrible grime and splashes from Moaning Myrtle’s toilet dive on them.” Pansy scoffed. “And what do you know, anyway? You fished out those ratty trainers from the aquarium in January and would have worn them to your first date with the Professor if not for my well-placed Incendio.”

Right in Harry’s hands, too.

“I’m not that clueless,” he protested.

Pansy gave him a pitying look. “Please.” She grew serious. “That snake was at least sixty feet long. I heard the rumours in our second year, and Weasley would throw an occasional reference, of course,” she said with a frown. “But I’d never imagined it this big. You were twelve, for Merlin’s sake!”

Harry pushed his glasses further up his nose and ducked his head. “Hopefully, my serpent slaying days are over.”

Before he could change the topic under Pansy’s intense gaze, the door opened, and a bleary-eyed Fleur peeked inside.

“What is everybody doing here this early?” she asked.

“This late, you mean?” Harry snorted. “We’ve just finished with the case, and Severus is making a cure for the cursed woman.”

Severus stayed in Draco’s flat well into the night, lifting the curse, and had spent the rest of it brewing squib-tailored potions to alleviate the after-effects. Harry had felt his chest ready to burst with love and pride when he had returned to the office to find an exhausted Severus in the lab, working on three cauldrons at once.

“What about you, Fleur?” Pansy asked.

“That _putain de chat_. The potion to get Harry that cat out of the mirror is timed, and I have to do a final application together with the countercurse in—” She consulted her wristwatch. “Two minutes and forty seconds.”

Pansy stood and followed Fleur, peeking curiously into the cursebreaking office. Harry lingered for a while, stoically finishing the sentence before giving up on the report and going over as well. He was just in time to see puffs of smoke coming from the mirror and a tabby cat darting past his feet.

Fleur let out a string of profanities in French. “Your namesake, your office. You get him out,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Two amber eyes gleamed at Harry from under Pansy’s desk. With a warning hiss promising retributions to anyone daring come any closer, the cat jumped onto the chair and then, after carefully sizing up the distance, onto the desk itself. There, he looked around, his whiskers twitching, and froze as he spotted the photo of Arsenius Jigger that the man’s wife had given to Pansy. Ears flat against his head, he let out his claws and proceeded to methodically rip the picture to shreds.

Harry picked him up, ignoring the disgruntled meowing. “There, there, buddy. I’m not a fan of Brother Asphodel myself, but let’s not destroy Pansy’s desk.”

Pansy snickered. “Maybe it’s a personal beef. Maybe, like the portrait, our four-legged Harry is also not what he seems.”

Harry snorted, but the cat froze in his arms and yowled. Thrown, Harry peered down at him.

“Are you?”

The cat blinked and gave a miserable meow.

“I _told_ Bill it was odd that he got trapped in a soul-capturing mirror. Those shouldn’t work on animals,” Fleur said, coming closer. “Let him on the floor, Harry. _Hominum Revelio_!”

Nothing happened. The cat sat still, only his tail thumping at the floor.

“What is this caterwauling?” Severus appeared from the lab. The cat darted to him, and Severus picked him up. “I should have known it’s you again,” he said, petting the striped head.

“Severus,” Harry started, an idea forming in his mind. “It might sound like a silly request, but could you please use Legilimency on Ha—the cat?”

Severus looked at him quizzically, but as Pansy and Fleur came up close with an intent expression, he shrugged and lifted the cat up to his eye level. After a moment, he staggered back.

“Damocles?” he asked incredulously.

The cat meowed in agreement.

“This is Damocles Belby,” he announced after another minute in the cat’s mind, his voice still full of disbelief. “Jigger cursed him over Damocles’s editorial in the Potions Monthly on the state of his apothecary. Some dark curse that pushed his soul into the neighbour’s cat; Damocles didn’t catch the exact incantation.”

“And his body is still in St. Mungo’s, right?” Fleur’s eyes were alight with professional interest.

“Yes, give him to Fleur,” Harry said through his teeth. “I don’t appreciate you cradling strange men in your arms.”

“You’re in luck, Potter,” Pansy said, grinning. “If Jigger is in Azkaban for assault and dark magic, as I’m sure he will be, you won’t need to attend another Lodge meeting. Although I’d need to collect the first paycheck from his wife before you press any charges,” she admonished the cat.

“We’ll find out what spell you are under, Mr. Belby, but first, I need a proper breakfast,” Fleur said, taking the cat from Severus. “Bill’s going to be so sorry he’s won that coin toss to sleep in today.”

* * *

“I still say we should have stayed in Milan and celebrate my birthday there,” Harry said as he and Severus stepped out of the Ministry’s international floo.

“I agree wholeheartedly.”

“You were the one who wanted us to come back a day early!”

“That I did,” Severus said with a pained expression. Despite his attempts to ward off the tan, he managed to pick up some Italian sun. His nose was slightly red, a fact that Harry secretly found adorable. “Now, let’s floo home, and don’t forget to act surprised.”

Harry smiled at him calling Grimmauld ‘home’. “Should you give away the secret after keeping it for so many days?”

“Please,” Severus said as they crossed the hall to the usual fireplaces set up for domestic travel. “After the way Weasley called me day and night, is there a chance you didn’t notice? No subtlety whatsoever. Why is he connected to my mirror, anyway?”

“George made them,” Harry explained. “And I’m glad I heard him. You getting up in the middle of the night to talk to someone under a Muffliato was getting suspicious.” He bit his lip.

The corner of Severus's mouth twitched. “I thought I was supposed to be the jealous one in this relationship.”

Harry took a pinch of floo powder and braced himself. Even without overhearing Severus, Harry knew what to expect: his friends threw him a surprise birthday party every year.

“Grimmauld Place!” he called.

His house greeted him with pitch-black darkness and hushed ruckus.

“Ouch!” someone whispered. “That was my foot, Ron, you clumsy prat!”

“Be quiet, Ginny! Here he is!”

Harry heard Severus coming out of the fireplace behind him.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”

As Harry was showered with confetti, the lights went up, illuminating the drawing-room decorated with balloons. The furniture was pushed to the walls to free the space for the crowd in the middle—more space than he remembered the room to have. A big disco ball had replaced the chandelier, and Harry wondered what his friends had done to persuade Kreacher to put it down, even temporarily. Most probably, kidnapping.

“How’s the holiday, mate?” Ron thumped him on the back. “Hullo, Snape.”

“Oh, you must’ve seen so much!” Hermione said, coming over to give Harry a hug. “Italy, both magical and muggle, has such a long and fascinating history.”

“Yeah, a bit,” Harry said. They did travel across the country some, going for a gondola ride in Venice and eating seafood at the Mediterranean coast, although guided tours were the last thing on their mind.

Someone turned on cheery music, and Pansy was already dragging a bemused Parvati Patil, unaccustomed to Harry’s birthday traditions, to dance in the middle of the room. Judging by the half-full glasses in some hands, the party had started well before their arrival. His birthday had always served as an excuse for his friends to come together and have a good time.

Harry waved to Hagrid, who was sitting nearby with a giant mug, taking up almost the entire sofa. He had spent the year before in France with Madame Maxime, and Harry missed his first-ever friend immensely. With a grateful peck on Severus’s cheek for helping to organise the party, Harry looked around with a smile.

Which dimmed slightly as he spotted some unexpected guests.

“What is Malfoy doing here,” he hissed to George who came over with two glasses of punch.

George frowned at Severus. “You said—”

“Draco will be on his best behaviour, I’m sure.” Severus waved him off. At Harry’s questioning look, he elaborated. “Narcissa asked to invite him. Four owls and a floo call to the hotel, all for a playdate,” he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Apparently, after we left, Draco went straight to his parents to announce that he’s marrying Astoria in two weeks and opening a printing business on Diagon.”

Harry whistled. “Good for him. I guess being suspended over a giant boiling cauldron is helpful for reevaluating your life priorities.”

“Having that Lumos moment, as they say,” Severus added with a grave nod.

“People say that?” George asked, looking from him to a now suddenly snickering Harry. “And a giant boiling cauldron?”

“Long story. What did Malfoy Senior say?” Harry asked Severus.

“Lucius threw a fit and barricaded himself in his study with a bottle of Ogden’s.” Severus said, his voice snide. “Narcissa thinks Draco is going through a rebellious phase and wants him to feel included.”

“I’m sure we’ll be a positive influence.” George snickered.

“Don’t be too hard on him today.” Harry, well familiar with George’s ways, wagged his finger. “Malfoy might prove himself not a complete wanker yet.”

“A shining endorsement,” said Severus.

“But more importantly, how did Narcissa know about my super-secret”—Harry shifted his gaze from him to George and back—“birthday party?”

“Narcissa has her own sources.” Severus shrugged, looking over to where Draco was talking to Andromeda, chin up, anxiety rolling from him in waves palpable across the room. Astoria had her hand on his arm, smiling encouragingly. “When it comes to Draco, it’s often easier to just do as she asks.”

Teddy ran up to them from the snack table, sausage roll in his hand. His eyes, changed from his usual brown to green, shone with excitement, and his hair was dark and messy.

“Happy Birthday, Uncle Harry! Hello, Mr. Severus! Nan says you’ll be opening presents later, but please open ours first, it’s the best!”

“I promise I will, monkey.” Harry smiled.

Watching his friends and their loved ones (and one maybe-not-so-bad-after-all ferret), Harry felt happiness blooming inside him like the exotic flower Severus had insisted they collect from the magical Alpine valley the night before. The song changed to a ballad, and Harry tugged him to where the couples were forming.

“There’s not enough alcohol in this room to make me, Potter,” said Severus.

Harry laughed. “I knew you’d say that. Perhaps I’ll tempt you for a dance after this crowd leaves?”

“Perhaps you will.”

* * *

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


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